


Acetone Peroxide

by Psiiconic



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bank Robbery, Blood, Drugging, Explosions, Glorification Of Violence, Imprisonment, M/M, Pre-Established Relationship, Prison Sex, Rioting, Robbery, Sex in later chapters, Terrorism, Therapy, Unethical psychological treatment, Violence, pls tell me if anything else should be tagged, prison environment, sedatives, shitty government, well...attempts at therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2018-12-11 09:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11711862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psiiconic/pseuds/Psiiconic
Summary: Roadhog's been jailed before, and he'll be jailed again. Cages, like laws, were made to be broken.He just regretted dragging Junkrat into it.





	1. Propofol

On Roadhog’s personal list of good nights, tonight was nowhere to be found. It had started well, but then they'd taken a wrong turn and he'd barely stopped the chopper dead against a wall in a dead-end alley when the smoke started. 

Biotic sleep bombs. 

Junkrat had been down instantly, and he’d turned his head and realized Junkrat was snoring away when the biotic began to filter through his mask. 

Now he was here. He'd woken just quick enough to get a hand around the throat of the poor fucker with their slimy paws trying to get at his mask, a snarl ripped from his throat as the cop squeaked fearfully. 

The next thing he knew there was the cool barrel of a gun at the back of his neck, and the realization that huge cuffs closed about his wrists. He was weaponless-not that someone like Roadhog could ever really be weaponless, he was more than willing to use his own body to kill-and alone in a room with height markers up on one wall. 

Where was Junkrat?? 

He slowly, achingly peeled his fingers away from the neck of the cop as the one behind him gave him directions. “That's more like it, Rutledge. Hands on your head. One over the other, nice and slow. Don't turn around.” 

His blood boiled at the name. That wasn't his fucking name anymore. 

But there was no sign of Junkrat, no giggles or even a wheezy ‘Fuck ‘em up’. Just silence. 

By now, Roadhog despised silence. “Where’s Junkrat?” He growled, carefully folding his cuffed hands atop his head. This wasn't his first go-around with cops, but it was Junkrat’s. What if he mouthed off and got himself hurt? 

“Your little buddy is loopy as shit. Fawkes isn't as smart as you are, Rutledge, and he needs to be kept under control until we can lock you both up. You know you're going to jail for as long as possible, right?” The gun came away from his skin, but he could feel it still pointed at him. “James, get the mask off-”

His only response was a grunt. “Take off the mask and I will reach down your throat and rip off your balls.” 

The first cop, James, made a scared whimpering sound. The one behind him just sighed. “...leave the mask. He’ll lose it later when he's processed. They aren't going to get free now that they're caught.” 

_That’s what you think_ , Roadhog mused silently. He'd broken out of jail before. All he had to do was wait until he could get close to Junkrat. 

“Up against the wall, Rutledge.” 

He shuffled to the wall as directed, each step thudding menacingly even in bare feet. 

Wait, when had they taken his boots?

“You Brits make it a habit to have yer prisoners walking barefoot?” 

“Shut it, Rutledge. You junkers turn everything into a weapon. 

“Boy, he's a big fucker,” the first cop said quietly. “Think he really took down ten guards himself, Freddie?” 

“It's on the security cams. This one has a long rap sheet and there's a reason we went with biotics to snag them both.” 

“Think they got a handle on the skinny one yet?” 

“Depends how quick the sedatives kicked in.” 

Sedatives?

Roadhog shifted as menacingly as he could when a card with his dead name and a string of numbers on it was stuffed into his comically large hands. 

“I saw the scrawny git kickin’ the shit outta the poor sod as went to get ‘im before I got here,” James murmured. 

“Like I said,” Freddie grunted. “Sedatives.” 

“I think he bit someone. Cackles like a fuckin’ hyena.” Actually, Junkrat’s laugh resembled a kookaburra, but Roadhog saw no point in correcting the guard. 

As if on cue, there was the sound of a door opening, and Roadhog tilted his head just enough to look. 

What the _fuck_ had they done to Junkrat?! 

He giggled, looking even more naked than usual without any of his bombs. His hair was still smoldering from explosive flames, but his unhinged chuckle sounded off to Roadhog, and he stumbled more than even a man with a peg leg should as a cop shoved him into place beside Roadhog. Junkrat’s tongue hung out of his mouth, and his eyebrows were twitching almost as bad as his eyes and fingers. 

The motherfuckers had him _drugged_. 

There was a moment of pride in the scrawny moron that swelled in Roadhog’s gut. He'd made such a monster of himself that the cops had no choice but to pump him full of drugs. Junkrat just rolled his eyes to look up at Roadhog and immediately let out another deranged and barely-aware version of his usual cackle, and just like that the pride evaporated into anger. 

Junkrat had been drugged so much he barely knew where he was, another card shoved into his twitching, cuffed hands without the man even blinking. He was drooling, apparently incapable of entirely closing his mouth, and he swayed a bit on the spot. 

“Faces forward! Fawkes, Rutledge!” A guard made Junkrat turn, and the scrawny man cackled and twitched for the camera. 

With anger bubbling in his chest, Roadhog obediently snapped his face forward and watched the camera flash off the lenses of his mask as he resolved to tear the lungs out of everyone who had dared to drug his boss. 

There were a few more flashing cameras, and a murmur he could barely hear. That was two-way glass then, with reporters safe behind it, he would bet. He strained to hear as a guard went out of the room.  
“-hopefully we’ll be able to extradite Rutledge to New Zealand, but no clue on Fawkes-” 

His lip curled in disgust under his mask as he lost the rest of the words. Extradited to New Zealand? Yeah. Right. Like that country wanted him back. 

But what about Junkrat? He cast the man another glance. 

Junkrat was still giggle-drooling. Ugh. He hadn't even given Roadhog a friendly hello. 

He couldn't protect Junkrat like this. _Or get the payout for Junkrat's treasure_ , he hurriedly added to his own thoughts. Fifty-fifty. That was the deal, that was the job. 

God, he hoped they'd land somewhere with multi-occupancy cells long enough to plan a way out. It would take more time than he wanted to waste otherwise. 

“All right, Rutledge, time for processing. Let’s go.” 

Roadhog snapped out of his thoughts when he realized two guards were dragging a wildly cackling Junkrat away, and he moved to follow before he felt any prodding baton or gun. He couldn't let Junkrat out of his sight, and he ignored an order to slow down. Junkrat was still drugged. Junkrat needed him. 

Jamie needed him. 

This was all his fucking fault anyway, wasn't it? He should have turned left, not right, should have avoided the dead-end alleyway. He could have lost their tail. They could be running free. 

Instead they were here, in prison. 

The guard, Freddie, prodded him forward with the baton and he growled, but stepped forward. “Welcome to Belmarsh, Roadhog. Hope ya like your stay,” the man said sarcastically before prodding Roadhog through the door after the half-conscious Junkrat. 

It was going to be a long, exhausting night.


	2. Adderall

Processing had been a pain. His remaining personal items (the harmless ones) were taken, and he was given an ugly boilersuit in a shade of green and yellow that even he thought looked horrendous. He was going to put it on after removing the remaining personal effects and enduring a nice demeaning hosedown and strip search. 

He knew the drill. It wasn't the first time. He couldn't wait to see the face on the fucker who had to check his belly button for contraband. 

Still. He’d been separated from Junkrat and didn't like it one bit, didn't like the way everyone in the prison seemed so goddamn gleeful. 

It wasn't as if they were safe. Not from Roadhog, and certainly not from Junkrat. 

As he deposited his rings into a bag for ‘safekeeping’, he stared down the collections clerk like he was trying to skewer her with silence. Each ring clinked on the one before it. 

L. E. F. T. 

And then the thumb ring from his other hand. 

Thick tan lines lay hidden under their vacated spaces. Despite the fact that they'd somehow possessed an awful uniform large enough to close over his belly and shoulders, Roadhog felt exposed. The feeling only worsened when the clerk expectantly held out a box the perfect size for his mask. 

“I said no.” 

“I'm sorry, Mister Rutledge. Unless you require that mask for a health issue, you cannot keep it-and we are very much aware that you do not have a medical issue that necessitates such a heavy-duty type of respirator.” 

Well, at least she seemed apologetic. 

“No.” Not like he was going to make it easy. His refusal was low and dangerous, the woman visibly swallowing as she apparently remembered that the man in front of her was a notorious murderer, among other things. 

“...Mister Rutledge, I have to respectfully request you either give me a good reason to sign off on keeping that mask, or give me a chance for an alternative solution.” 

“Lungs’re scarred. And I have asthma.” Well, he'd had asthma. When he was twenty. The radiation had made it better, not worse-but no one needed to know that. Sometimes he wheezed, but only if he really overdid it.

“We’ll be able to get you a rescue inhaler if necessary, but asthma doesn't get your mask out of the box.” 

He deliberated silently, hands loosely curled into fists on the table. The chain of the cuffs clinked-it was heavy-duty. Solid steel. 

He could probably break it, snap her neck and murder his way back to his shit and whatever impound they'd taken his bike to-

And then he remembered Junkrat was somewhere in here, drugged into submission. 

“What about the scarring,” he rumbled. “Without a filter breathin’ hurts.” Not totally the truth-but making them think he had a serious weakness was an important start. 

“I can provide you with a surgical mask, but that's the best I can offer you.” 

There was more silence as he thought again, wistfully, of snapping her neck. Then thought of trying to get Junkrat out. 

“Get me one of those and then I'll take it off. It stays until you do.” 

He was only doing this for Junkrat. That was his only reason. 

The guy didn't deserve to be confined in a cell. Roadhog knew full well that he deserved it, and wouldn't even question a guilty verdict. But Junkrat? Junkrat had just done what he knew, what had let him survive. He wasn't insane, he was brilliant, and the suits that ran the prison-industrial complex probably wanted to keep him down to show any other Junkers with ambition that they didn't have any power. Keeping Roadhog caged was just a matter of time-he'd broken out before. 

Keeping Junkrat caged was just asking for nuclear fallout. 

Roadhog knew that, and knew they wouldn't be able to drug Junkrat forever. He'd grown up in the Outback, and he'd adjust to whatever shit they were shooting him up with before long. 

And then Junkrat would turn into a wild animal none of these fucking people had ever seen. None of them had ever been granted the privilege of seeing a caged junker desperate to be free and clear, and if Roadhog had his way he would be right beside Junkrat when the prison-Belmarsh-went up in flames. 

He was knocked free of his thoughts again when the woman returned, a simple surgical mask held between her fingertips. “Here you are. You’ll be given a replacement every week for hygienic purposes.” 

She set it in front of him, and he reached up to reluctantly unbuckle his mask. 

As it slid free, he held his breath and distracted the woman by shoving the mask directly into the designated box and swiftly tucking the surgical mask into place. 

It didn't quite cover his jowls despite tucking it under his chin, and wouldn't hide his eyes-greenish brown and exhausted, with crow’s feet at the corners and scars dragging the left side down. When was the last time he had slept? He didn't know, but it hadn't exactly been relaxing when he'd been knocked out by fucking biotic tranqs. He knew his tusk implants were poking into the mask a little oddly and couldn't suppress a slight chuckle. Let that scare the other fucks that were about to be exposed to the One-Man Apocalypse.

“Thank you very much, Mister Rutledge.” She gave him an insincere smile and he just let out a grunt. 

“Where’s Junkrat.” 

“Mister Fawkes is going to be sent to the infirmary for a medical checkup before he’s placed in a cell. He needs to be fitted for a leg that cannot cause damage.” 

He clenched a fist, knuckles cracking. “His leg is fine.” 

“It's a potential weapon. I'm sure you are aware of that, Mister Rutledge.” 

“Roadhog.” 

“...please try to behave yourself, Mister Rutledge. If you're extradited to New Zealand it is likely your environment will be much improved there over here.” She stood, carrying his mask and rings, and left. 

He memorized her face and the direction she went for later. 

Ugh. He had stubble growing. He already knew they wouldn't let him shave-hand Roadhog a razor? In his dreams. There was also the tan line line in the exact shape of the mask’s seal. He knew it was there, even without a mirror. 

He withstood the search by imagining how it would sound to crunch each guard’s bones under his fists or feet. 

Speaking of feet, he didn't have shoes, which was just plain rude. His boots fit just fine, so clearly it was possible to get shoes his size, but no! Just thin socks that didn't keep the cold of the floor out. 

Beggars and prisoners couldn't be choosers. 

He had never been more reminded of that fact than he was when he was escorted into the prison proper, immediately assailed by the unwelcome jeering and hooting of other caged criminals in his assigned wing. He tried to tune them out, hoping vainly for a familiar cackle, maybe a lanky arm hooked lazily through a bar with a familiar sun-bright grin to make him smile under the mask. 

No such thing. The guards put him in a single-occupant cell. 

He did feel a bit smug about being too dangerous to even mix with other dangerous men. 

“Where’s Junkrat?” He demanded again, choosing to ignore that the cell’s bed was definitely too small for him both in length and width. It was all he'd said. 

“Oh, for fucks sake, shut up about your little boyfriend,” a guard snorted, the electronic lock on Roadhog’s cell beeping as it locked. “I bet he's having a real fun time in the doctor’s office seeing flying piggies right now.” 

Roadhog’s fist hit the bars right by the guard’s face with a horrible thwack sound, the steel visibly shuddering under the impact. “Talk about him like that and lose a limb,” he growled. He meant every word, and the guard knew it just as much as the cell across the way did, the man inside freezing like an emu in a headlight. 

“Bring me Junkrat,” Roadhog growled flatly. “Or else.” 

His fist slid away from the bars and he just stood there, staring with cold eyes. The guard backed away. 

He got ready to wait. 

And wait. And wait. 

Eventually, he leaned his forehead against the cold metal and closed his eyes, dozing off standing up with his ears waiting for the sound of a familiar limping gait. 

“Hey. Hey. You. Piggie.” 

Roadhog’s eyes snapped open again, a glare leveled at the prisoner across the way. “What.” 

“Hey, ya responded,” the man grinned, speech thick with an annoying Liverpool accent. “Been tryin’ to get yer attention for an hour. I heard about ya, see, you're Roadhog, aren't ya?” 

He grunted. He wasn't interested in talking to anyone else. 

“Ya sure got stuck in the main cells quick, pal. Wonder why they aren't drugging ya like I hear they are the other guy.” 

He just stared, thick eyebrows furrowed in the middle. 

“Guess ya kinda know the drill, eh?” 

Roadhog gave a slight nod of confirmation. “Not my first time. Or second.” Or third or fourth, for that matter. Sure, the fourth hadn't really counted-he'd allowed himself to get caught because he'd been hired to kill a different inmate-but whatever, it had still been jail. 

“I’ve seen ya on the telly. That scrawny guy ya work with seems like a real firework.” 

He frowned under the surgical mask, but outwardly just huffed. “He's a good kid.” 

“Good enough to make ‘is own bombs, I hear.” 

“What's it to you?” 

“Just wonderin’ why he's being all drugged out, is all.” The man shrugged. 

“They're caging him. He can barely tolerate a roof over his head.” It made Junkrat feel trapped. “An’ they separated us. They don't know what they're dealin’ with,” he rumbled. The other prisoner nodded amiably like he understood. He couldn't possibly. What Roadhog and Junkrat had was unique, and no one could ever understand it but them.

“He ever been locked up?” 

“Not this way.” 

“Gonna be tough.”

“Until we get out.” 

The guy let out a bark of laughter. “Ha! You two aren't gettin’ out. Not with your rap sheets. Just you it's like, a bunch of murders and larceny, right? And he's full of straight up murderous arson.” 

He growled. “You think I meant getting out peacefully?” 

It came out so slowly that the guy shuddered uncomfortably out of nowhere. “...Righto. You uh, y’go on keepin’ that thought.” 

Roadhog leaned his head back against the bars to ignore the guy. 

“Y’know, I thought killin’ a couple people was the worst a guy could do. Word is you're barely even human. I mean, ya look human to me but who knows.” 

“Shut up,” he grumbled. The guy didn't listen. 

“I'm just sayin’, even guys who’ve been in here for fifteen years an’ never left Britain know about ya! Yer infamous even outside Australia.” 

“I don't care. Shut up.” 

“Well you're over there and I'm over here, so my ass don't gotta listen to you, half-breed.” 

Roadhog’s shoulders tensed. “You wanna maybe apologize for callin’ me a half-breed? Ya don't know jack shit about me.” 

It was probably the tattoo on his right shoulder that usually hid under his armor that gave it away. 

“Don't need t’know you to know yer a half-breed, piggie. Heard the guards talkin’ bout sending ya to New Zealand. Yer one a them Maori or sommat.” 

He growled, just annoyed enough that he couldn't ignore the antagonism. “I'm full-blood Maori, ya fuckin’ pommy. Screw off an’ shut up if ya like yer head on yer shoulders.” 

“Oi!” The guy seemed offended, but the rattle of a door distracted them both, Roadhog pressing himself as close to the bars as he could when he realized there was a familiar sound-muffled, oddly so, but familiar. 

A limp. He could hear the scrape of a prosthetic leg and he felt hope swell in his chest that threatened to stream out of his mouth as Junkrat appeared, attached to a guard by a handcuff on his left wrist. 

It jolted Roadhog’s stomach to realize they'd taken his arm entirely. The ugly boilersuit hung off Junkrat’s scrawny body, the right sleeve cut and tied closed just under where he knew Junkrat’s stump ended. Next he looked down-and there was a rubber foot poking out of the leg of Junkrat’s stupid suit. 

The weirdest part of it all was that Junkrat was clean. He’d known they'd hose the guy down, but he legitimately looked like he'd been scrubbed clean of years upon years of grime. He'd never seen Junkrat looking quite so clean, even after making him shower-and Roadhog realized somewhat belatedly that it was because they'd fucking combed his hair. In some sort of ridiculous combover nonsense. With only one hand, cuffed down and held, Junkrat couldn't even mess it up himself. 

Was he still drugged?

Roadhog pressed his face into the bars, eyes narrowed above the surgical mask that rose and fell with his breath. 

He caught Junkrat’s gaze as the junker was marched down the hall and felt a chill race all the way down his spine. 

Junkrat wasn't high anymore. He was furious. 

He knew Junkrat recognized him-how couldn't he? Junkrat shot him a grin as the guard marched him past, but said nothing. Roadhog gave a grunt of acknowledgement. 

They'd get out. It would be a matter of time. But they'd get out, and Belmarsh would be nothing but an ashen ruin. 

“Keep an eye on Fawkes,” one of the guards said. “He's on a psych hold for 48 hours while they decide if it's worth moving him to a psych hospital.” 

“He’s too dangerous to be in one of those places! Did you see the bite on Murray’s wrist?” 

“I don't make the rules, he's on suicide watch too.” 

“Ain't suicidal, mate, but thanks for worryin’.” There was Junkrat at last speaking, following up with his familiar chuckle. Roadhog felt his smile spread under his mask. 

“Shut it, Fawkes.” 

“Oi! Let a guy defend himself, yeah?” 

Junkrat was talking so that Roadhog knew where he was. If he was any judge, Junkrat was actually just the cell over. 

“You're not making anything better for yourself, Fawkes.” 

“It's Junkrat, mate. Junk. Rat.” He could practically taste the wild grin on Junkrat’s face. “Mister Fawkes was me daddy, so I hear! Ahahaha!” He snickered. “Not that I rightly remember me daddy!” 

The guard let out an audible sigh. “I hate this guy already.” 

“Then go stand next to Rutledge instead. He barely talks.” 

“Say hi to my favorite porker, eh?” 

He couldn't help but let out a tiny snort. Junkrat was still pissed. But for some reason, he wasn't pissed at Roadhog even though his shit driving had landed them in this situation. He scanned the guard with a critical eye as they reentered his field of vision. No guns. Just a baton. That was one way to keep weapons away from your prisoners. He didn't speak to the guard, but did speak-to Junkrat. “Ya hangin’ in there, boss?” 

“Right as rain now, piggie!” He giggled in that way that told Roadhog he was beyond pissed. 

Roadhog let out an acknowledging grumble and a sigh. “Hey. When do we get time out of the cells?” 

The guard shot him a look. “Tomorrow. Go the fuck to sleep, Rutledge.” 

“Roadhog.” 

The guard just stared at him. “Lights out is in five minutes.” 

“Bed’s too small.” 

“Deal with it, inmate. Everyone gets the same bed.” 

He scoffed and backed away from the bars, sitting down on the narrow bed. It let out a creak that concerned him for a full minute, but he leaned his head against the wall. 

Wait. 

Was that tapping?

No. Scratching. No...both. 

Belatedly he came to the realization that the tapping and scraping was Junkrat, carefully and quietly using the wall to communicate. 

Roadhog suddenly found himself glad he'd insisted on teaching Junkrat Morse code. Even if it was outdated and functionally ridiculous-this was the exact situation it came in handy for, and Junkrat had remembered. 

_fuck the popo_ , Junkrat tapped, clearly too annoyed to tap full words. Roadhog responded, using his own hand to tap and scrape. 

_We’ll burn this place down._

Junkrat tapped his response with the same sharp punctuated taps he was probably doing with his fake leg. 

_They took arm and leg. Gotta get the treasure._

_I know._

Roadhog sighed. 

_Our gear will be in impound. They can't destroy anything until there's been a trial and that will take time._

Junkrat could be heard through the wall a little, and he sniffled before responding. 

_They want to send you to NZ._

_I know_ , he responded. _They won't take me. We’re the brit’s problem._

Morse code took forever. That entire exchange lasted almost twenty minutes, but it at least gave them both something to do-and it ignored the way lights shut off in the entire wing partway through. No one else seemed able to hear them, either-the other inmates were whispering or hooting or squawking. 

_They sound like a bunch of dingos_ , Roadhog tapped. 

He could hear Junkrat giggle when he deciphered the message, and it did make him smile. 

_Ugly dingos._

True. 

_Roadie. I miss ya._

That came after a long silence, and Roadhog sighed heavily, sure that Junkrat could hear him. 

_I'm sorry. This is my fault._

_It ain't!_

_I should have turned the other way._

_Still ain’t your fault! We didn't die!_

_I know_ , he tapped. _But we lost all the loot._

 _They dunno where our hideout is_ , Junkrat pointed out. _We got all the shit we have stashed there._

That...was a good point. He decided to tap one more message.

_We gotta be good in here enough to get privileges. It'll make breaking out easier._

Junkrat giggled again. _I'll be on me best behavior._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for the moment! Chapter 3 is already in progress and it ain't gonna be pretty.


	3. Adrenaline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day One. There's some nasty slurs and the first reason we have graphic violence as a warning. Also, Junkrat is easily turned on.

That first night was the hardest. 

Without Junkrat, Roadhog felt cold. 

The bed under him complained at his weight, and his feet dangled off the end. His belly was too wide, hell, his shoulders hung off the sides too. He would've been better off sleeping on the fucking floor. He made the best of it-it was after all marginally more comfortable than sleeping on hard rock or packed dirt, which he'd done plenty. 

Was he getting spoiled and soft with stolen mattresses or cheap motels? Or was he just old? 

It took Roadhog forever to feel comfortable, forever to settle himself into a position that didn't make his back complain or his breathing shallow. Eventually he realized part of the problem was that he didn't have Junkrat’s skinny, warm frame curved up against his back or his belly, no wiry arm or leg thrown across his own or soft breathing in his ear, no smell of scorched metal and man. 

No, his best sleep aid was in the cell next door, passed the fuck out. 

Junkrat had cried himself to sleep. 

Roadhog had tried to keep himself from breaking down in tears, too. He’d done this before, he'd broken out before, too-but he hadn't had Junkrat to worry about back then. 

It was sinking in, finally, that they were _caught_. They were in jail like the criminals they both were, like the terrorist he'd been. 

It wasn't fucking fair. It wasn't mother _fucking_ fair. 

For now, though, there was nothing he could do but tug the mildewy blanket up over the thin, papery mask and try to sleep, pining for Junkrat’s warmth. 

He dreamed, which was odd. Odder still was that his dream was more of a memory. 

He was 19. 

“You sure about this, Mako? Your mom is gonna lose her mind.” 

He smirked, casually flipping off his friend-he didn't remember their name, or their face. “She didn't lose it when I got these,” he rumbled, pointing out his tusklike implants. “I'm a fuckin’ adult, yeah? I already started my moko, ya know that. What's a piercing or two?” 

“Yeah, but, septums hurt-” 

“Th’moko hurt like a fuckin’ bitch,” he remembered replying flatly, rolling a shoulder that throbbed under several layers of bandages. “I can take a little stab.” 

Whatever they'd said next he didn't remember. He didn't remember actually getting the piercing, but he remembered the mildew smell for a few days, the chill of the ring threaded through his nose. 

When he opened bleary eyes to bright lights and the orders of guards, it was thinking he had to get up and wash his nose to keep the piercing clean. 

He was halfway up towards the sink and toilet in the cell before he grunted and memory flooded back, Roadhog recalling where he was in an instant as he immediately flopped backward with a loud complaining of the bed. 

His septum piercing was almost 30 years old, and the gold infinity ring hadn't budged in almost half that time. 

Must’ve been the blanket. 

Next, he heard yelling, the screechy sort of tone to it causing him to instantly groan and sit upright again. Junkrat. 

“Oi! What's a guy gotta do for a little grub in here, eh?? Ya fuckers is gonna let me starve! Lookit me ribs, mate!!” 

“Can it, Fawkes!” 

Oh, boy. 

“Ain't gonna can it till I get some fuckin’ food!” Junkrat screeched, and an irritated guard walked past without looking at Mako. “Food happens in half an hour, Fawkes!” 

Roadhog sighed, checked that the flimsy mask was in place (he definitely did _not_ surreptitiously check his septum for the familiar ring) and got up to the bars again. “Yer gonna eat, Junkrat,” he called, his voice easily traveling to even Junkrat’s damaged ears. “What’d ya promise me?” 

He could practically hear Junkrat’s fire dying down. 

“....Best behavior, mate. Roight. G’mornin’,” he said sullenly. 

“Go take a piss,” Roadhog advised. “I'll seeya soon.” 

The guard came back to shoot Roadhog a sour look. “You two are under extra guard. No conversation in the mess hall.” 

“Fuck you,” Roadhog responded eloquently, turning his back to answer nature’s call. They didn't need to talk. He didn't even hear the guard telling him that being an insubordinate dickhole wouldn't get him anywhere, and he didn't care. 

He needed to touch Junkrat and make sure he was okay, make sure whatever he'd been given hadn't damaged his already irradiated body and mind. 

He just needed to touch him. 

He could hear Junkrat complaining bitterly the cell over. Not only had these idiots caged him, they'd put him in a cell alone. Roadhog figured that was both a blessing and a curse-a blessing because Junkrat wasn't able to start a fight with a cellmate on day one, a curse because it meant Junkrat was alone completely for the first time in near three years. 

He'd drive himself insane without something to do, without something to write or draw on or bombs to build. 

It was only a matter of time. 

Thankfully, that time was yet to pass. The guards were opening cells and having everyone line up for breakfast. 

Now this, he was sort of looking forward to. Prison food wasn't great, it wasn't even good, but it was better than Outback fare and it was usually nice and hot, and he could probably even get his hands on some tea. He adjusted his mask again as he shoved his hands into the front pocket of the stupid boilersuit and waited for a guard to open the cell. It was also a comfort knowing that Junkrat would be once again within his reach. 

Well. He thought so. He was let out and told to get in line, which he did, and glanced back over his shoulder to watch for Junkrat. 

The jerk from Liverpool was let out next, creating an immediate inconvenient buffer. The fucker even had the balls to grin at Roadhog as if he knew he was separating them. 

Junkrat locked eyes with him when he was let out, and Roadhog raised one eyebrow in a silent question. Junkrat responded with a gentle giggle and a wink. He'd mussed his hair back up overnight, the blond locks looking unusually clean, if charred a touch short. 

There'd been a lot of fire at their last heist. 

He was forced to face forward again, walking in a line of other shoeless men. He noted heavy guard up high, and at entry. Some of the guards were omnics. 

His stomach churned at the idea of ‘good behavior’ involving following an omnic’s orders. 

Something else churned when he heard the guy behind him speak. He hated that accent. 

“Oi, are you wi’ the big guy?” 

“Sure am mate! That’s me Hoggie!” 

Oh, no. Junkrat. Don't interact. 

Junkrat promptly continued to interact. “He's the best! Kept me alive for years now.” 

The guy laughed, as if he was being friendly. “Yeah? Must be nice to have a big guy like that on your side. You two got quite the record.” 

“Stop talking,” Roadhog grunted. The guy just scoffed. 

“I'm just bein’ friendly.” 

“Do not talk about me like I ain't here.” 

“A’ight, a’ight, sheesh.”

Satisfied, Roadhog faced forward and memorized the layout of the path to food-but his stomach flipped over for real when he came upon the line of men filtering through double metal doors. 

He smelled bacon.

It made sense-pigs were relatively cheap protein, cheap to obtain and easy to cook, but...he just couldn't. His consternation, usually hidden behind his mask, was noticed by an omnic behind a glass shield as he approached the required tray holder. “Is something the matter, Inmate Rutledge?” 

It made him go stiff. He didn't want to reply, but….best behavior. He briefly thought about how satisfying ripping the omnic’s head off would be. 

“I...don't eat pork.” 

“Not to worry, Inmate Rutledge. We provide vegetarian options with every meal and the pork is completely optional.” The omnic extended a green tray, different from the other gray trays, and a plastic fork. 

Roadhog took them, suppressing a shudder of revulsion, and looked back at Junkrat as he moved down the line. Junkrat was giggling, eyes searching for Roadhog. 

Roadhog was given acceptable food (eggs and potatoes, probably rehydrated, and a small plastic fruit cup) and moved to walk to a table as far away from the rest of the inmates as he could. He didn't even care that it was right by a guard, he'd rather that than an inmate he didn't know. The tables were bolted down, and though the amount of food would keep him going, it wasn't enough. Thank god he was used to the perpetual pinch of hunger. 

Junkrat slid into the bench beside Roadhog in a sudden line of familiar warmth, pressing as close to Roadhog as he could. “Hey, Roadie.” 

He grunted, eyes crinkling as he smiled fondly under the mask. “Hey.” 

“Looks like ya won't have to stoop to eatin’ bacon, yeah?” Junkrat grinned and leaned in, then froze in surprise when Roadhog stopped him from stealing a kiss with a gentle hand. “....are ya mad at me?!” 

“No, no,” he rumbled. “Showin’ affection in here is dangerous, Junkrat. I want to...I do, I've been...worried.” He sighed and pushed Junkrat’s flesh hand into his lap. “But anyone will try to find a weakness an’ take advantage.” Also the guard was right there. 

It broke his heart to do it. He wanted to drag Junkrat close and kiss him breathless, make sure they both knew the other was alive and well. “...know what they drugged ya with?” 

Junkrat shoved eggs into his mouth. “Propofol, I think. Don't really remember. Didn't last long.” 

He grunted in acknowledgement. “They think yer crazy. Ya ain't.” 

“Well _obviously_ ,” Junkrat snorted. “They don't understand me genius. Runnin’ scared, ain’t they?” 

“Mm.” 

“Fuckin’ ridiculous, roight? Ain't like I can do much! They gave me this shitty leg that don't fit right an’ I ain't got an arm at all! I had t’fuckin try an’ put me pants on wi’ one arm,” Junkrat complained. 

That galled Roadhog, but he just grunted again, knowing that the guards didn't want them to talk. Luckily for Roadhog, Junkrat was so good at reading him that he didn't have to talk. 

“Mmhmm.” 

Junkrat was ambidextrous, so he was probably doing okay, but Roadhog was angry on his behalf anyway. They were taking Junkrat’s mobility and his ability to defend himself away. It wasn't fucking fair. 

A clunk across from them both jolted Roadhog out of his automatic eating process-forkful of food, lift mask with left hand, slip food into mouth and put mask back in place. It startled Junkrat too, the plastic fork dropping to his tray with a click as his hand twitched in surprise. 

It was that idiot with the Liverpool accent. “You two’re right close, aren't ya?” 

Roadhog growled. “Go away.” 

Junkrat stared like a wild thing, and he didn't shrink, but his leg pressed against Roadhog under the table. Reassurance. 

The guy just grinned, showing off absolutely horrendous teeth. “Cheers. Just gettin’ a chuckle out of the pair a ya. Yer fresh faces! Most of us have been here so long that anythin’ new is fascinatin’, especially when ‘new’ has been on the telly for ages!” 

Roadhog growled under his breath and Junkrat ducked his head to shovel more food into his face. The other inmate clearly had no ability to understand when a very large man didn't want him around. 

“I'm Craig, Craig Charleston. Been here longer than most. You two got a bit of a tale, dontcha? The telly ain't the best source but word is you two are a wild pair of Outback junkfuckers. They had t’use biotics to catch ya, didn't they?” 

“Oi, mate, we ain't really interested in makin’ small talk wi’ya about th’circumstances of gettin’ snagged,” Junkrat replied, trying and failing to point a finger that wasn't there. His stump twitched rather strangely and he made a face, but Craig didn't seem to care. 

“You two need some introductions! Ain't gonna have a good time in prison without knowin’ yer way around! We get two hours in the mornin’ an’ two hours in the afternoon after meals for yard, some of us have job assignments, an’ then some people got appointments. You two’re probably gonna spend most a yer time in the cells until they can trust ya to do work, or ya have appointments with the prison shrink.” 

“I don't need no shrink,” Junkrat snorted. “I got Hoggie!” 

“Shut up,” Roadhog grumbled. He began to swiftly eat his fruit cup, trying not to let the mask catch on his tusks. 

Craig, evidently, was an idiot. “Everyone sees one. Stupid ‘rehabilitation’ nonsense. Y’know, rumor was that you two was dangerous. Look more like a pair of fags t’me.” He seemed unimpressed, or possibly disappointed. 

Roadhog’s head jerked up. “Watch it.” Craig was already on thin ice for calling him a half-breed that first evening. It took everything in him not to reach across the table and crush his skull. 

“Oi, Hoggie, gimme a grape,” Junkrat said, deciding to ignore Craig. Roadhog held the cup of fruit out to Junkrat and he tried to grab with his right hand, stopping dead and staring at his stump before he dropped his fork and went for his chosen grape. 

“Why’d they even stick a faggy little spaz-waz like you in ‘ere, anyway, li’l rat? Don't they usually send your type to the bin?” 

Junkrat froze with the grape halfway to his mouth. Roadhog seemed to unfreeze instead, free hand lashing out across the table in a blur of brown hand and green sleeve before it made contact with Craig’s arm, grabbed and _twisted_. There was an audible crunch and a sickening pop, and Craig let out a yelp like a kicked animal, jerking away until Roadhog let go of his mangled arm. He'd broken the bones of his forearm and dislocated the shoulder from the way Craig’s arm hung and twisted funny, and it felt _so fucking good_ to do. 

The cafeteria fell dead silent, even the guards slowly swiveling to look at the scene before Junkrat opened his big mouth. “Roadie, you magnificent cunt.” There was a few more beats of silence until Craig made a pained whining noise, a sudden chorus of ‘oooooohs’ filtering through the cafeteria as if to shame the junker for his language. Junkrat fixed Roadhog with a mildly oblivious grin and a familiar giggle. The ‘you breaking things is sexy and I probably have a hard-on” sort of giggle. For a moment Roadhog felt vindicated, like he'd finally gotten to release a little anger-and then the guards stepped in.

“Rutledge! Cell! Now!” 

He shot Junkrat an apologetic look, eyes soft as they scanned the scrawny and unusually clean blonde, before he got up, brushed a crumb off his stupid outfit, and did as the guards told him. He thought briefly about utilizing the chance to make some _real_ mayhem, but they didn't know enough about the prison layout. It would just land them with even more security and less chances. It wasn't worth it yet. 

“Waitwaitwaitwaitwait, I'm goin’ back too!” Junkrat yipped, scrambling to his feet and almost falling when the right leg got caught on the bench. “I'm goin’!” The guard closest grumbled, but let him, and the two were marched back to their cells. Junkrat kept trying to touch Roadhog somehow, a silly grin on his face.

“God, Roadie, I love it when ya get that way,” he cooed, only for a guard to groan. 

“Shut it, Fawkes!” 

Junkrat ignored the guard. “Just makes me wanna sit on those big handsome thighs a yours an’ get meself all settled right close to yer-” 

“FAWKES!” 

Junkrat abruptly gave up with a sigh, giving the guard a nasty look. Roadhog was almost relieved to be back in the lonely cell if only because Junkrat was safe next door, not alone among the other inmates. Without Roadhog to protect him, he'd inevitably pick a fight with the biggest fucker he could find, and he'd lose. 

“You need to keep yourself under control, Rutledge,” one of the guards growled, smacking his baton on the door. All Roadhog did was raise an eyebrow. “You're gonna end up in the same situation as yer buddy.” 

“Fuck off, mate,” Roadhog grunted. The guard rolled his eyes and walked off grumbling, and Roadhog leaned against the wall he shared with Junkrat. His adrenaline was still pumping, still reveling in the feeling of crunching bones and popping joints. 

He hoped that fucker Craig never healed right. He didn't like leaving people alive, but if he had to he wanted them to have a reminder that Roadhog let them continue to live. 

There was tapping and then Junkrat spoke up loudly. “Hey! Roadie! Roadie, s’just you an’ me-go t’yer washroom. Wall’s a little thinner in there.” 

Roadhog gave an acknowledging hum and lumbered into the tiny toilet-and-sink combo. There was a toothbrush with a rubber handle and a small tube of toothpaste that he noted with a pleased little huff, but he waited to hear Junkrat. 

There was a knock on the wall by his left ear and he leaned against it, crammed into the space as best he could. 

“Roadie? Can ya hear me?” 

It was muffled, but that was Jamie’s voice. “Yeah.” 

“You're hot. What a fuckin’ idiot, mouthin’ off across from ya.” 

“Thanks, Junkrat.” 

“You make me wanna fuckin’ drop down an’ suck ya off for hours, Roadie. It’s drivin’ me batty bein’ in a box!” 

“I know,” he murmured. “We just need to tolerate it for a while. Get privileges. Make ‘em trust us. Then we can blow it up.” 

Junkrat giggled. It was odd to hear it so muffled, but it made him smile anyway. 

“Y’know what else mate? I'm real mad that everyone else gets t’see yer pretty eyes.” 

“My face ain't meant for them.” 

“I know! I know! S’meant for me, ain't it?” 

“Yeah. Jus’you.” 

“God, Roadie, I can't wait t’get the fuck outta here,” he whined. “This shitty leg throws off me balance, makes me fuckin’ limp worse an’ I stumble. It don't fit right. And me arm, Roadie.” 

“You're whining.” 

“....Yeah.” 

“Jus’ try to think about how y’can get shit for a bomb here.” 

“Oh I already know, mate.” 

“Tap it t’me later, don't want no one overhearin’ by accident.” 

“Roight.” 

Roadhog leaned his head against the wall and sighed. “M’sorry, Junkrat.” 

“Naw, don't be.” 

Roadhog’s fist thudded against the wall. “Miss ya.” 

“Miss ya too, ya porker. Gonna get out, I promise.” Junkrat thudded the wall in response. “Least I can hear yer voice.” 

“Code is more secure.” 

“Yeah, but I can't wank to code.” 

“.....Jamie. Are you…?” 

“God, watchin’ ya snap that fucker’s arm in two gave me such a stiffie! Lemme live!” 

“Jesus Christ,” Roadhog said flatly. “You're insatiable.” 

“Too right!” 

“I hate you.” 

“No ya don't, Hoggie.” 

He could picture it, actually, Junkrat leaning up against the wall and stroking himself just to the sound of Roadhog’s own voice. It would do something, if he was a little younger, and the image was definitely appealing. “You have exactly zero self control.” 

“You have me undivided attention.” 

“I ain't gettin’ you off through a wall.” 

“Break the wall!” 

Roadhog let out a growl that he was certain Junkrat could hear. “Do not _tempt_ me, Jamison.” 

“Ooh, fuck, Mako, do that again, that growly deal.” 

Roadhog ran a hand over his own head and sighed, and then obliged, letting a rumble purr out of his barrel chest. “Close, Jamie?” 

The only reply was an extremely muffled whimper. So that was a yes. “Good boy.” 

From behind the barrier, he was able to hear a sudden, slightly strangled “Aah!” 

Then there was shuffling and Junkrat’s voice, sounding moderately satisfied. “Ain't as good as you, but that helped. Thanks, mate.” 

“Moron.” 

“Love ya.” 

“Hmph. I'm gonna lay down an’ listen for yer tappin’.” 

He didn't hear Junkrat if he responded, simply going and trying to lay down again. Comfort wasn't usually on his radar...because Junkrat was comfort enough. 

God, they had to get out of here. 

Tapping caught his attention, and he listened as Junkrat began to tap and scrape a list of what he needed. 

_Shit that cleans wounds, comes in a brown bottle in the crappy aid packages from back home? Then that shit that takes off your nail paint. A fridge? Also jars or bottles and somethin to shock or make friction and set it off._

Hmm. That was a short list. Hydrogen peroxide, nail polish remover, and a fridge, plus a starter. _Is that all? Will that be enough?_

_More than enough, trust me._

Well, Junkrat was the expert on things that went boom. Roadhog tapped an ‘okay’ and closed his eyes in an attempt to nap, to sleep. 

It lasted maybe twenty minutes before the sound of other inmates returning to their cells woke him, but he didn't move. He listened to Junkrat trade friendly insults with the person across from him and realized that Craig hadn't returned. Probably in the infirmary. 

He hoped it took them hours to set the guy’s arm. He liked the lack of annoying noise from the other side. 

After a while he overheard another inmate shouting. “If it wasn't for yer massive buddy, Rat, we’d all be out in the yard and his ass got us put on lockdown!” 

“Mate, Craig was askin’!” 

“Ain't yer mate, ya nutter!” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Roadhog growled, loud enough to be heard. The invisible inmate just grumbled. 

“Fuckin’ fatass-” 

Oh no. 

“Did you jus’ call my friend a fatass, ya fuckin’ dickhead?!”

Oh, no. 

“So what if I did? Whatcha gonna do about it, wanker?” 

Roadhog silently prayed Junkrat would shut his mouth-but he had no such luck. 

“Get stuffed, ya fuckstick!” 

The two devolved into yelling insults at each other and each other’s mothers, and then Roadhog spotted the blur of a guard trotting down the way. “Quiet!” 

“I'm bored as shit, mate!” Junkrat started to complain. His voice sounded different, and it was with mild horror that Roadhog realized he was either pressed against or hanging off the door. 

“Get down, Fawkes!” 

“No!” 

Hanging off it then. Lovely. The guard was ordering and Junkrat was insulting him in turn. 

“Down!” 

“Go on! Hit th’double amputee, I seeya thinkin’ about it!” Junkrat blew a raspberry. 

Time to step in. “Junkrat. Go take a goddamn nap.”

“Uuuugh Roadie-” 

“Now.” 

The sound of annoyed swearing through the cell and moving back told him he'd done his job. Protecting Junkrat was a hard job-especially when he had to protect Junkrat from himself.

With a groan, Roadhog tuned the annoyed swearing out and wished desperately for a book.


	4. Serotonin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wee bit short this time, but therapy is hard to write, especially if someone doesn't wanna be there!

He shouldn't have been surprised that there would be punishment for snapping another man’s arm. What did surprise him was that the punishment wasn't immediate. In fact, he sat in the cell for hours. He could hear everything as Junkrat yelled and tormented the guards, heard them trying to out-shriek the junker and get him to stop hanging off the door, waving his rubber leg at them, and cussing. 

Roadhog didn't bother to help them. The guards showed no signs of harming Junkrat-all they could do was yell. Junkrat could hold his own against some insults, and he gave as good as he got, so Roadhog just covered his ears with his huge hands. 

No one got yard time that day. Around six-at his guess, anyway-prisoners were removed for dinner. He shuffled to the cell door with the rest, but the guards bypassed him entirely.

Roadhog frowned as he saw Junkrat lining up, and Junkrat shot him a ‘I don't know what's happening’ sort of look. 

“M’I goin’ to eat?” He addressed a guard with a grunt. 

“After your stunt this morning? Fuck no. You can't eat with the rest until your assigned therapist says you can.” The guard folded his arms. “You’ll be cuffed and taken to meet them for an emergency mental health screening after everyone is eating.” 

“Hmph.” He just sighed. He knew it would happen-he was being punished with a missed meal and further separation. The missed meal was probably illegal, but he’d gone more than a day or two with little to no food. He’d survive. 

But what was this bullshit about a therapist? 

He didn't need a therapist, didn't want a therapist. He'd never known prisons to care much about the mental health of the prisoners, either, so in his mind this was all absolute crap. 

Unfortunately for Roadhog, it was definitely not crap. He was cuffed and marched under guard of four men (were they trying to insult him with just four?) down and out of the cell block to what was probably a visiting room. He was sat down in a chair that creaked under him, still cuffed, before another person entered. He could see the shadows of the guards by the door. 

Oh, what the _fuck_. This therapist had to be younger than Junkrat, for fuck’s sake-she was bright-eyed and practically happy to see him, which was indication enough that she was in over her head. The young woman was plump in a way that showed Roadhog she’d never struggled for a meal, with healthy shiny brown hair, and the blue-white glow of her eyes threw him for a few moments before he realized they were prosthetics. Somehow, her gaze wasn’t cold and mechanical. Just creepy. 

“Mister Rutledge! My name is Doctor Annabeth Russell. I'd shake your hand, but they won't allow me to uncuff you yet.” She winked, and Roadhog just stared at her like she had two heads. The girl sat down with a slight fluttering of her suit jacket and thunked a brand-new notetaking tablet before her. “For privacy purposes I am legally obligated to inform you that all our sessions will be recorded, but cannot be accessed unless subpoenaed in a court of law,” she murmured, before touching a button and a visible sound analyzer popped into existence. 

“Now, I understand you caused a bit of a ruckus this morning. Did Mister Charleston insult you?” 

Silence. 

She waited, prosthetic eyes searching his own as if she was trying to read his mind. “No?” 

He just gave her a flat look and raised a bushy scarred eyebrow. 

She sighed then. “I guess your file did say you aren't much of a talker. You've got quite a history, and I think you and I both know you've got some issues you've never resolved.” 

His eyebrow arched a little higher. What did this kid know? How could she possibly grasp the scope of his mental health?Yes, he did have issues. He'd spent decades trying to ignore them. Almost out of spite, Roadhog didn't reply to her. 

Annabeth leaned in a little, almost like a friend. Almost. “Mister Rutledge. I genuinely want to help you. It's not just my job-my father spent most of my childhood in a prison much like this one. Without counseling he would never have been in my life at all. I just want to provide you with the opportunity to be...well, if not capable of release, at least more at peace with yourself. Your case is complex and it's my job to see if rehabilitation is possible, and I like to think it is!” She smiled brightly. 

On a typical British brunette, those prosthetic eyes were creepy as shit. She kept talking, since he'd already made it clear he didn't plan to. “With your cooperation, I’d like to discuss your past starting from your childhood leading up to now, to see if we can find out if you have any deepseated behavioral disorders that we can work on to help you feel more like yourself at your best.” 

That was a red flag. He barely recalled his childhood and he didn't really like thinking about his wild teens. He almost unconsciously played with the ball of the barbell through his tongue behind lips clamped somewhat desperately shut-the first of multiple body modifications. He didn't need to impart the regrets and delights of his youth to this...this soft, fresh-faced college kid with creepy mechanical eyes who somehow ended up his fucking _therapist_. 

“No.” He grunted finally. “Not interested.” And then he shut up again, feeling uncomfortable and exposed. He missed Junkrat. 

“Much as I'd like to give you that choice, Mako-I can call you Mako?” 

“Roadhog.” 

“...we’ll stick with Mr. Rutledge, then. As I was saying, Belmarsh has recently instituted much higher standards of mental health care for inmates. Everyone needs a mental health screening within 48 hours of entering confinement. I believe your friend Mr. Fawkes has already had his.” 

“Junkrat’s fine.” 

“...well, that's not what I've been told, but I cannot discuss it due to patient confidentiality. Just as I can't discuss what you say here with anyone else.” 

“I don't consent to therapy.” 

His language indicated he knew the drill-but the rules were different in prison. “You act as if you've been seen by a therapist before! That's good! And again, I wish I could offer you the choice of consenting, but the court is very clear that all inmates receive counseling and mental healthcare. That's most of the business things out of the way,” she murmured. 

“Just send me back to the cell. Nothing wrong with me.” 

“Your file says that you were at one point a member of the Australian Liberation Front. Tell me, Mr. Rutledge, do you ever have flashbacks? Did you experience trauma during your time with the ALF that still bothers you?” 

“No.”

“Do you recall where you were when the Australian Omnium exploded?” 

Instantly, Roadhog could practically taste the blood, metal and grit in his mouth, hear the sound of shotgun fire and the twisted screeching of an omnic being systematically blown apart. 

Outwardly he showed nothing-nothing but a slight twitch, his eyes widening enough for the light in the room to catch the green within the brown. He could hear the rumble, remembered turning to look up at the distant hulking mass of the Omnium as his target fell, he spat blood from his own mouth, and he’d realized the talk of sabotage had been real. He remembered watching the entire thing light up brilliant blue, the strange silence, where nothing in the Outback made a sound…

And he remembered the ear-shattering boom that came ten seconds later, remembered leaping onto his chopper with more mobility than he'd thought he had and speeding as far away as he could, trying to outrun the cloud of shrapnel and the radiation until his palms burned on the metal of his chopper. He’d had to shelter in someone else’s abandoned trailer until the fallout dissipated. He could even remember the sensation of the nuclear wind stripping the skin of his face-the only part of him, at the time, that wasn't hidden by biking leathers-until it was raw and rough.

There was a strange sound in the room. Like a whine, almost, or a kicked dog, and it took a few seconds for Roadhog to realize he’d made that noise-not the girl, Annabeth. The realization made him force his teeth together and his lips closed under the paper-thin mask, reminding himself that he had no real filter and that this girl wanted to get into his head. Said girl was just sort of...looking at him. Her prosthetics couldn't tell him if she was pitying him, but he really did not give half of a shit what she thought. 

“Well…” she started. “Let’s move away from the Omnium, then….would you say you have thoughts to harm yourself, or others?” 

Before he could stop himself he answered. “Life is pain. So is death.” Then he laughed a little, mostly at himself for being a fool and opening his mouth again. 

“That doesn't quite answer my question, philosophical as it is,” she murmured. He raised his shoulders at her in a shrug. 

“I'm not going to hurt myself.” 

“But you do think about harming other people?” 

He stared flatly. “Some people just need to be hurt.” 

“Or killed?” 

“If you want that answer, get a lawyer.” 

“Like I said before, anything you say is confidential unless subpoenaed.” 

“Some people need to be killed too, then,” he rumbled. “Ain't my problem who or why.” 

“How long have you gone through your life that way? It says here you're pushing 50, Mr. Rutledge. Don't you think someone your age might be tired of killing?” 

“Don't care.” 

He would never get tired of killing. He just...couldn't. It was too much of a rush to see the fear in someone’s face, too much fun to riddle them with scrap, hook them through the gut or the chest, bash someone’s ugly mug in until it was pulp. And it made Junkrat laugh. 

“You don't have any desire to retire, as it were?”

Retire? Maybe. To a little, self-sufficient homestead in the middle of nowhere, with a well for water, solar panels for power and heat, maybe a decent Internet connection. Room for a few pigs, add a shed with some chickens, and a nice garden. A bomb range for Junkrat. 

He didn't think about retiring anymore unless it was in the context of retiring with Junkrat. And Junkrat wasn't the retiring sort. 

“No.” 

“Do you think you are capable of getting along with other inmates so long as no one harasses you?” 

“I don't care what they say or do.” 

“And yet this morning you sent a man to hospital.” 

“He asked for it. Insulted my friend.” 

“Mr. Fawkes.” 

“His name is Junkrat.” To everyone but him. 

“So abuse leveled towards you doesn't set you off, but if someone attacks him you retaliate on his behalf.” 

“That's my job.” 

“Your job?” 

Roadhog narrowed his eyes at her. She was prodding for answers and it was clearly time to stop giving them, so he folded his arms-tried to fold his arms, hastily dropping them back to the table when he remembered he was still cuffed-and stayed silent. 

“You're really recalcitrant, aren't you?” Annabeth sighed, but didn't shake her head. “I promise I'm not trying to harm you, or your relationship with Mr. Fawkes.” 

“None of ya know jack shit about our relationship. If ya did ya wouldn't have separated us.” 

“Care to explain that?” 

A smile tugged thick lips under the mask. “Junkrat’s gonna make all your lives hell once th’novelty of prison wears off. You watch-yer gonna wish he’d never been brought in.” 

“You are infinitely more dangerous, Mr. Rutledge, than a man with one arm and leg.” 

“You have two fake eyes,” he retorted. “Doesn't make you any less of a probing, dangerous little bitch.” 

She took the verbal attack well and just giggled. “I was born blind, actually, so I think I'm going to take that as a compliment. Still, you're the one capable of breaking a grown man’s arm one-handed, not Mr. Fawkes.” 

“That drongo was lucky I didn't snap his neck,” he grunted. “Or break his ribs.” 

“And you see yourself as a violent person?” 

What kind of a stupid question was that. “D’you know what other Junkers called me?” 

“The ‘One-Man Apocalypse’, yes?” 

“Think they gave me that title because I was nice to ‘em?” 

There was silence for a second before there was a threatening creak of metal. He could snap the chain linking his cuffs. Roadhog made certain she knew he could, but chose not to do it. “Yer in over yer head, princess.” 

“....Roadhog, I am here to help you. If I think it's necessary, I could work with you to get you placed in a double occupancy cell...possibly with your friend Junkrat.” 

“Yer lyin’.” 

“I'm not! I think confining people in solitary cells is terrible for their mental health, and when two inmates are known to get along well they work better as cell mates. It's simple psychiatry-you're happier around your friends.” She folded her tiny little soft hands together. “I'm your ticket to keeping Junkrat safe. Isn't that what you want?” 

“So yer plan is, what, to help me get back in constant contact w’Junkrat?” 

“Well, yes, in a way.” 

“Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth,” Roadhog grunted flatly. “I'm not above killing to keep him safe.” 

“Why? What does he offer you that earns your loyalty where no one else seems to have held it before?” 

More silence. 

If he answered honestly, he would have said it was first the promise of Junkrat’s treasure. Then, it became that Junkrat _was_ the treasure, at least to Roadhog. That Junkrat kept him warm at night and brightened his day just by smiling, that every annoyance Junkrat created had Roadhog smiling under his mask even when he was telling the kid to shut the fuck up. 

That Roadhog loved him. 

This was not a situation where he answered with honesty. It wasn't one where he could answer at all. He just...stared, and brought his hands up to itch at the day’s worth of silvery stubble starting to prickle his jaw and neck. 

She was clearly waiting for an answer, and he let a sigh rush out of his lungs before he mustered up a decently believable lie. “Saved m’life more than once himself. Sticks by me. That's all.” 

Annabeth raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “If you say so. Do you feel that Junkrat helps keep you emotionally stable?” 

“My emotions are stable without him.” 

“Does he make you unstable?” 

“Yer just full of questions.” 

“And you are giving me no answers that would enable us to move forward,” she replied, letting out a sigh. “At least try to answer the diagnostic questions. Do you drink alcohol, Roadhog? If so, how often before you were imprisoned?” 

“Yes, rarely. When we can get it.” 

“And how many drinks, when you could get them, did you average?” 

“Dunno.” 

“No idea?” 

“Takes a lot of booze for me to feel anything.” 

“Hmm. Okay, do you use any drugs? I know you have a healing agent of some sort that was confiscated. No one seems to know what it is.” 

“S’just a concentrated biotic,” Roadhog lied smoothly. “From aid packages.” 

She bought the lie. “Any other drug use?” 

“Depends. I like weed,” he shrugged. “Never really tried the harder stuff. Some when I was a kid but ain't exactly on my radar no more.” 

She hummed slightly. “Do you experience periods of intense hopelessness, periods of depression, or the sense that your life is out of your control?” 

“No.” 

“Never?” 

“No,” he rumbled. He wanted to be out of here. Junkrat was currently left to his own devices and that was never good. 

“You're vegetarian?” 

“Nah. I just don't eat red meat. An’ if it was all I had I'd eat it, but never pork.” That was simple enough to explain. “Red meat ain't good for yer heart and shit. I try t’stick to healthy shit if I can. Fowl an’fish.” 

“I'll make sure that goes in your file. One of the breakfast staff noted you ate eggs despite a vegetarian tray, so I'll make sure they're aware your only restriction is red meat. Why don't you eat pork, specifically?” 

“I like pigs.” 

“Is that the only reason? It's not religious in nature?” 

Of course it wasn't. He still remembered why he didn't eat pork-when ten-year-old Mako came home to find that his pet pig had been turned into porkchops. Poor, sweet little Spoink. He'd only been 90 kilograms. 

“Pigs are pets,” he murmured. “Shouldn't be food.” That was as far as he was willing to go with that explanation, and he still wanted to leave so badly it hurt. Or maybe that was the chair arms digging into the fat of his sides. 

“You like pigs?” She smiled. “They are very smart creatures, aren't they?” 

“Mm.” 

“Don't worry, you don't have much time left to deal with me today.” She smiled at him, and he wanted to scrape it off against a wall. “When you were growing up, what kind of environment was it? Were your parents married, and if so did they fight often?” 

His parents. 

Well, fuck, he barely recalled that. But if it would get him out faster…

“Mum was in charge. Dad died when I was a baby. Don't remember anythin’ about the guy.” 

“Ah, I see.” He hated her sympathy. “Any other family? Siblings?” 

“No one alive.” 

“...Any significant others, or children?” 

Roadhog visibly winced. “....Not anymore.” Just Junkrat. He didn't have a family anymore other than Junkrat. 

“And what would you call your relationship with Junkrat? Are you friends?” 

Why was she suddenly using ‘Junkrat’ instead of ‘Mr. Fawkes’? 

“....partners,” he grunted. “He hired me first, but now we’re partners.” 

“In what sense?” 

“None of your business.” 

“It is absolutely my business.” 

“....We’re partners. _Platonic_ partners,” he grunted through clenched teeth. The lie stung, but they were already using Junkrat and Roadhog’s working relationship against each other as it was. Tell these suits they were anything beyond platonic, and he'd never see Junkrat again. 

He couldn't live like that. No Junkrat, and he'd slip so far back into Roadhog and away from the tiny touch of Mako that Junkrat had brought out that he'd never recover. 

“All right, Roadhog.” Annabeth sighed. “Well, I think I have somewhere to start. I'll have you taken back to your cell and regular scheduling will resume tomorrow. Please let me know if you need anything.” 

“A book would be nice,” he grunted. “So’s I don't burn a hole in a wall w’my eyes.” 

“I can see about you being allowed to visit the library tomorrow,” she smiled. It was weird how it didn't reach her eyes, how they just retracted their mechanical pupils a bit. There was no real light in her eyes, and it was the most unsettling thing he had ever seen. He grunted in understanding, and waited until the guards appeared again to rise with a creak of the chair he vacated. 

Being back in his cell was a relief once he was uncuffed. They'd passed Junkrat’s cell on the way, and he didn't bother the man. Junkrat had been snoring already when he came back, and while Roadhog was relieved to see him physically unharmed, he started to worry that perhaps Junkrat had been drugged. Junkrat never slept soundly unless he was high or Roadhog held him. 

Well. If he was drugged, Roadhog would find out, and he'd make sure whoever did it suffered. 

Now he just had to pass the time until he could eat breakfast (hopefully his whole breakfast) and see Junkrat again.

He wanted to see Junkrat again. Wanted to touch him, hold him and smell that familiar gunpowder-and-smoke scent, hear his laugh, the glint of his gold tooth when he smiled….

God, he hated being this in love with the scrawny git. He'd gone so soft. 

Roadhog sighed and tried to make himself comfortable all over again on the too-small bed.


	5. Epinephrine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER HAS A RECOMMENDED MUSIC ACCOMPANIMENT FOR THE FIRST HALF! 
> 
> Please listen to the following if you wanna really get a feel for what Roadhog's feeling!  
> https://youtu.be/r-5_-svPiWU  
> https://youtu.be/YUNTMeCQ1BE
> 
> The second is an a capella cover I chose because it matches exactly to Roadhog's ingame walk cycle ;)

It had been a week since that first therapy visit. Junkrat was becoming subdued, and quiet, and Roadhog itched to get them out. He'd tried-but they'd been separated more after the first incident in the cafeteria. He didn't know why. Probably, Annabeth was full of absolute shit. And whoever Junkrat was being forced to see was also fucking shitty. He wasn't sure how they'd demoralized Junkrat so fully and quickly, but they'd had Junkrat intentionally separated pretty much any time other than meals. Even when he went to the library (books were a small comfort) a guard would have Junkrat go somewhere else. It was starting to bother him, how passive Junkrat was. Were his hands twitchier? Was his balance worse? 

Since Roadhog was no longer allowed around Junkrat long enough to be certain, it probably would have continued like that if no one had let Junkrat and Roadhog into the yard with the other prisoners a week and a half into their imprisonment. 

He never would have guessed Junkrat would be the one that killed someone first in prison.

It had started like any other argument, Junkrat limping too close to one of the longtime tough guys, one of the Big Men in Belmarsh-Derek was his name, Roadhog thought. In for attempted murder and aggravated assault, not afraid to toss his weight around to get what he wanted. Not a nice guy, about Junkrat’s height and twice his weight-making him smaller than Roadhog by about 90 kilograms and a half meter. Derek had decided that the junker was A: annoying and B: stupid. While the first was accurate, the second most certainly was not, and his attack on Junkrat-calling him yet another slur that the British prisoners tossed around like they were toys-swiftly devolved into an argument when Junkrat insulted Derek’s mother, father, and penis size all in the same sentence. 

“Ya fuckin’ retarded little fag! What’d I say about gettin’ in earshot?!” 

“Fuck you, fuck yer mum, an’ fuck yer da wi’yer ten-centimeter wiener!” Junkrat flipped the guy off intending to continue towards Roadhog. 

Roadhog was about to step in when Derek threw a punch with his large pink fist, but he'd hardly made it two steps over to where Junkrat was arguing before Junkrat swiftly ducked and _hit back_. 

It was like time stopped as he watched Junkrat's arm swing out, slam into the man's nose and drive upward. Blood came next, and a horrid crunching, and Derek collapsed with his nose pretty much caved into his face. Roadhog knew he was dead before he hit the ground. There was silence. 

He'd taught Junkrat how to do that particular maneuver, hoping he would never use it, and he'd last seen Junkrat look that furious when he lost his arm. 

Sound rushed back into his ears, the sound of Junkrat screaming obscenities and swaying on his mismatched legs, his knuckles dripping with the other man’s blood. Roadhog moved on autopilot, seeing the way the stunned silence of other prisoners was about to boil over. The guards were too far away from them at the moment to save Junkrat from an angry mob, and one scrawny Aussie versus at least a hundred angry Brits was far from even. 

Add Roadhog into the equation, though, and the ball went into the Australian’s court. 

The mayhem started the second he moved, prisoners screaming and howling in a sudden massive ball of violence and frustration with Junkrat in the epicenter. He was throwing punches and people before he could even blink, trying to work his way to Junkrat. It started to feel good three seconds in, and he slammed a prisoner’s head into the ground with a roar. They were faceless, just green and yellow boilersuits. No names, no faces, just the satisfying _crunch_ of bone under his fingers, wet splatter of blood on dirt, on his knuckles. He got tackled and barely flinched, snarling with a huge smile on his face as he flipped the offender over one shoulder, grabbing them by the hair and slamming them to the ground as well. 

He could hear Junkrat cackling, screeching, yelling gibberish, and there was another crunch as he slammed his fist into someone else in his way. Junkrat was practically dancing, ducking and weaving with more skill than most people would expect of a man with one leg. It wasn't like their typical fights-no bombs, no guns, no hook. Just fists and wit and speed, and Junkrat had more than enough wit and speed to make up for his currently lacking fist. 

Roadhog howled his approval as Junkrat elbowed someone right between the eyes, and he was barely cognizant of someone tearing his mask off his face. The next victim screamed; Roadhog laughed long and deep and low as he threw them across the yard, his entire body leaning into the fight. It was two versus two hundred, and he didn't want to stop, not now, not ever. It was a dance, especially when he got to the center of the fight where Junkrat hopped over at least one dead body and Roadhog punched someone so hard they threw up when they hit the ground. 

The Junkers were back to back, narrow against broad, and Junkrat grabbed on to Roadhog’s shoulder to lift his whole body with one arm and kick someone with his rubber leg, the prosthetic making a horrible impact noise on contact with human flesh. Roadhog reached back, grabbed Junkrat right where he’d grab his harness, and used Junkrat to smash two people together. Junkrat cackled and he was grinning, and Roadhog was grinning, and then they’d bitten each other’s mouths in a hasty kiss before they dove back into the riot with glee. 

It was a riot now-a riot focused on trying to bring down the Junkers. But they were wild and dangerous, hardened by radiation, starvation, mutated dingoes hunting down a scraggly boy covered in dirt for their dinner or Roadhog’s own damn government leveling firepower at a mountain of a man with something to lose. They had nothing to lose now except each other and everything to gain, and Roadhog’s punches and low laughter were just as disturbing as the way Junkrat dipped and turned and filled in the spaces the huge man couldn't hit. 

Junkrat had no bombs, but somehow he'd found pebbles that he threw with devastating accuracy. He was hitting people in the face, seemingly hundreds of pebbles raining down like shrapnel from his mines as he threw handfuls of gravel and the occasional large stone. 

Roadhog slammed two men’s heads together, spread his arms and _roared,_ daring more people to try and have a go. Junkrat’s kookaburra cackle punctuated the end of his roar, and it was so fucking arousing that Roadhog was sure he was going to lose control of himself even more than he already had. 

This was _so much fun._

Junkrat tripped people into Roadhog’s path with his rubber leg, and gravel rained into eyes and hair and open mouths if it didn't pelt skin. Roadhog was happy to keep hitting, and time didn't exist as he did what he did best: fight. He felt like no one could touch him, and the first shiv he spotted (a toothbrush) was promptly stolen by Junkrat as he pointed it out with a growl. The original owner went down under his fist a second later with a satisfying spray of blood. 

Junkrat couldn't throw gravel and stab at the same time, but it didn't matter-he stuck the shiv through the knot at the end of his sleeve-covered arm stump, where it sat like a spur to stick anyone who got too close to Junkrat’s weak side. He returned to punching until he was able to steal another shiv, and now he was a junker with makeshift knives in hand. They weren't metal, but to both men the shivs were just as good as any other scrap you could find in a heap in the Outback. 

Part of Roadhog wondered why there'd been no attempt to halt this potential riot, but that part of him was too small to overshadow the part that opened a mouth with sharp tusks sticking out to roar again, a smile on his face as he laughed his way through six smaller men. He was far and away still the largest man in the yard, and Junkrat was close behind in height. The two Junkers were a practiced and lethal team even nearly weaponless, and no matter how wide Hog swung a fist, Rat wouldn't get hit. No matter how quick Rat flashed with his new shivs, he never hit Hog. 

Roadhog could smell blood, and it made him rumble with arousal at the same moment he wrapped his hand around someone’s neck and tossed them aside, not even bothering to go through the effort of breaking their neck. 

There was a flash of pain in his side that he took care of by kicking the offender’s legs out from under him and stepping down hard on their calves, and he looked to Junkrat with a smile on his face. Junkrat was grinning too and shot Roadhog a wink as he stabbed someone in the arm. Roadhog reached down and yanked another shiv out of his side. They'd gone for the kidney, probably, but missed. He could feel the wound bleeding, and the blade of the plastic-cup-shard shiv was red all the way up, but he was running too hot for it to hurt. Pain was already gone, and the pleasure of crushing bones and flesh in his grip was too great. He tossed the shard to the ground, bellowing a challenge at the remaining brawlers. 

The sudden horrible scent of gunpowder filled his nose, and he tasted ash in his mouth at the same moment he realized there was a canister offgassing near a fallen prisoner. Roadhog was moving before he could even blink, yanking Junkrat by the scruff of his shirt and dashing as fast as his weight allowed away from the gas. He didn't see the surgical mask anywhere, but they had to get away. 

He'd been teargassed before and he really, _really_ didn't want to repeat the experience. Junkrat let out an upset screech and Roadhog yanked him faster, barrelling inmates who were now fighting each other in their attempts to reach the Junkers out of his way. “Gas!” He grunted to Junkrat, and Junkrat growled like a wild thing. 

“The fuck d’you mean!?” 

“Tear gas!” He yelled, pulling harder as he tried to outrun the cloud. “Hurts like a bitch!” He ran straight for the doors of the yard, Junkrat in tow as the scrawny idiot finally got the message and started to hobble as fast as he could. 

They didn't get far, the sting of rubber bullets peppering Roadhog’s skin warning him that they wouldn't be escaping today, not at all, and rather than keep running he whirled and pinned Junkrat down, using his broad back to shield his boss from the bullets. There on the ground with gas creeping close and rubber bullets bruising him, he pressed a furious, wild kiss to Junkrat’s mouth. “Tell ‘em it was self defense.” 

Junkrat kissed him back and bit his lip hard. “Yer bleedin’, pig.”

“It'll heal,” he rumbled, and he kissed Junkrat again, hot and furious and needy because he knew-he _knew_ they had minutes, if not seconds, before they were separated again. 

Junkrat moaned, predictably, but bit Hog again. “Roadie. Roadie, they're druggin’ me up somethin awful, ya gotta make ‘m stop, I'm gonna lose what's left a me mind.” 

That earned Junkrat a growl on his behalf, Roadhog instantly furious. “What’re they givin’ ya?!” 

“Dunno,” he panted. “Lithium for sure. Somethin’ else, dunno, for mood? Fuckin’ makes me loopy, angry, hahahahahaha! That fuckin’ cunt had it comin’!” 

“Okay,” he rumbled, trying to ignore the sting of more rubber bullets, and the crunch of approaching boots. “Okay. We’ll handle it. Yer gonna adjust.” 

It seemed like Junkrat already had-he was perfectly normal now. Roadhog kissed him once more. “They dope ya again, pretend to be drugged if it don't work. Don't want them uppin’ the dose ya adjusted to.” 

Junkrat buried his face in Roadhog’s chest, and Roadhog dimly realized he was wheezing and breathing hard there atop Junkrat, dust and gas burning his lungs and throat. “Love ya, Hoggie. We’re gonna blow this place t’kingdom come, jus’ you wait.” 

Roadhog pulled him into one final, desperate kiss before several pairs of hands were on him and Junkrat wasn't under him anymore. He felt hands, and Junkrat slid from under him like a snake seconds before he was being restrained in the corner of Roadhog’s field of vision. His head hit the dirt, someone’s gloved hand atop his skull, and he could taste his own blood in his mouth as he was cuffed hard, three men in gas masks and riot gear pinning him down. His arms were wrenched back, cuffs tight, and he was having more trouble breathing. The wheeze took over, and he started to feel the pain of the stab wound in his side. 

His chest hurt. His throat hurt, his eyes too, and Roadhog took three shallow, stuttering breaths before green eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out.  
***  
Roadhog snapped awake with a gasp and the sudden belief that maybe, just maybe he'd had a bad dream before he realized the familiar weight on his face was not the right distribution to be his own mask. He tried to lift an arm to feel his face, and there was the feeling of something restraining him. 

He was cuffed to a hospital bed with a clear plastic oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. He took a deep breath, and then another, savoring the way the oxygen went down so easily. No outside air did that, not even here in Britain where there wasn't radiation. The day filtered back into his brain slowly as he blinked bleary eyes, taking in the surroundings. 

Junkrat had killed someone. 

Hell, he’d probably killed someone too. What a fight that had been, and just thinking about the _utter fucking mayhem_ had the man wistfully wishing he wasn't restrained so he could at least encourage his potential erection. He'd definitely been half hard for some of that fight, until it had turned sour and there'd been tear gas. He looked around for Junkrat, unsurprised to find that he was alone. It was clearly the prison hospital wing. He couldn't feel a bandage on his side-briefly he realized he’d probably just been subjected to healing biotics or similar. This wasn't down-and-dirty Outback medicine, nor would stitching a deep stab wound have been worth the effort with biotics available. 

Sometimes he forgot what it was like to be in a medical setting. Granted, his experience was...different, but he still remembered how a sterile environment worked. He could see some tools laid far out of his reach, and decided to lay back and wait to be seen. 

He ached all over. Whatever they'd done to his stab wound hadn't been done to his bruises. They probably looked a sight more vicious than they actually were-rubber bullets left the skin angry and red around the impact point. He didn't want to be laying on them on his back, but he couldn't move except to wiggle his toes, bend a knee, and roll his head from side to side. 

After a few minutes of this, a nurse appeared with the therapist lady-Annabeth-in tow. She had a pinched look on her face, and the nurse, who Roadhog belatedly realized was an omnic wearing scrubs (why?) moved to check a monitor. 

“His blood oxygen levels appear to be back to normal.” 

Roadhog’s lip curled in a snarl. They had a fucking omnic taking care of him?? 

Annabeth spotted it and narrowed her prosthetic eyes at him before speaking to the omnic nurse. “That's good. May I tell him about his condition and the current state of affairs? He did pass out and he’s known to...to dislike omnics.”

“While I do not understand why,” the omnic murmured in its uncomfortable monotone, “I am of course happy to let you speak to him. If you need me I will be just outside.” 

The robot left and Roadhog’s eyes followed them the whole time distrustfully. Once they were gone, his attention flickered to the therapist, who gave a heavy sigh before sitting down on a sterile white chair nearby. “You really outdid yourself, Mako. We haven't even had our second meeting.” 

“Who told you to call me that?” He growled, and she shivered at the rough rumbling of his voice and the muffle of the mask. “Get to the point. Is Junkrat safe?” 

“He’s...he's fine,” she stammered. “He's with his own therapist at the moment. I'm more worried about you. You collapsed, the riot crew had to call one of the nurses to keep you breathing long enough to get you here.” 

“Obviously I'm breathing.” He took another deep breath of the oxygen with a hum. 

“Yes, well. You had a stab wound-it's sealed-and various abrasions, but I don't think you understand the severity of what you've done, Roadhog!” She sounded a little shrill. “Ten prisoners are dead and thirty more are severely injured! Do you have any idea what you've done?!”

Ten? That was...a lot. But frankly not as many as he'd expected and he said as much. “That’s all? I'm going soft.” 

“That's terrible!” 

“That’s life,” he grunted flatly. “It was self defense. Junkrat was attacked, and I protected him.” 

“You both killed people!” 

“Junkrat didn't mean to kill the guy.” 

“Didn't he?”

“Does Junkrat’s therapist even think he's smart enough to murder that close?” Roadhog raised a thick eyebrow. “I taught him how to murder someone like that in case we ever got separated.” 

“You taught him how to-”

“Shove someone’s nose so hard into their head that they puncture their brain? Yeah. Quick and easy. Guy probably didn't even feel a thing.” 

“You're going to make things worse for yourself.” 

“It's never easy.” 

“You're being confined to solitary for a week as punishment for inciting a riot, with an hour of counseling a day.” 

“Fine. Junkrat?” 

She said nothing. He pushed. 

“What about Junkrat?” 

“Other than a few bruises he's apparently just fine,” she sighed. “His therapist, Marek, wants to medicate him again. I'm trying to stop him, but I'm afraid I won't have much luck.” 

“He needs t’stop druggin’ my friend,” he growled. “I'll rip ‘is head off.” 

She blanched. “I cannot make him do anything. It's all I can do now to use this incident to try and get you two into the same cell after your solitary confinement. Because-clearly- Junkrat is more volatile without you.” 

He scoffed. “You said I get a week in solitary? Good luck with Junkrat. If he's dead when I’m out in gen-pop again, this entire place? _It. Will. Be. Dust._ ”

The threat was very, very real, and Annabeth’s pale cheeks almost got worse. “You’ll be taken to solitary in a few hours. I'll make sure no one retaliates against Junkrat….it's the least I can do.” 

He just stared at her with narrowed eyes until she got up and left, boring a hole through the door in her wake with his angry green gaze. 

He could handle a week in solitary. He'd been alone longer than that in the Outback, and at least here he’d still get meals and wouldn't have to fight for scraps. 

But would Junkrat be safe without him?

He stared at his bound hands, head swiveling. Those hands wouldn't be able to protect Junkrat for a week. Wouldn't be able to dash across a yard and murder anyone who tried to hurt his boss. 

Wouldn't be able to do his goddamn job. 

Roadhog turned his face back up to the sterile white ceiling and chomped on his own lip, unable to wipe away the sudden tears that refused to stop pooling in his eyes and dripping all over his face.

He was really too old for this shit.


	6. Paroxetine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit short. Roadhog has an unwelcome encounter.

Roadhog missed the sweet scent of pure oxygen as soon as the O2 mask had been removed, and missed it more when the papery filter of a surgical mask covered his face and he was marched to solitary. The cell was a box with no visibility, no light save that which leaked under the door. He could close his eyes, sat on the thin bunk (was it worse than the other cell?), and almost feel like the darkness was just the Outback at night, the stars hidden by pollution or the ceiling of his simple room in Junkertown. 

But then he started to remember Junkertown. And, more specifically, the people within Junkertown, from the tattoo artist to the Queen herself. 

It wasn't his favorite memory, bowing at the feet of someone half his height, but he had no choice. Even Roadhog, Junkertown's top enforcer, had to bow to the Queen. He remembered her silver hair, shining like spun moonlight in the sparse lighting near her throne, and the sooty mask that darkened her brow. She'd been beautiful once, beautiful in the way that made men fall at her feet. Now she was still beautiful, but in the way that made the ground shudder and a chill run down Roadhog's spine.

He remembered her cold, dead eyes that said she would tear out your heart and eat it with a smile. Her orders to him would always haunt his mind, and the silence of the solitary confinement cell forced them to the forefront.

 _"Find my boy for me, Enforcer,"_ the Queen had hummed, deadly as an inland taipan. _"Bring him back to me alive. I need to make sure my darling Junkrat hasn't made a grave mistake."_

Junkrat. It was always Junkrat, had always been Junkrat. Why the Queen wanted him so badly Roadhog still didn't know, partially because Junkrat himself had forgotten why. All he really knew was that the Queen had kicked them both out when she'd realized Junkrat had convinced Roadhog into a double-cross. 

Just thinking about her made him miss his bed and shudder in fear at the same time. Sure, the bed had been old and balanced on cinderblocks, and the mattress springs were saggy, but it had let him sprawl nicely and he'd had a tube of precious, filtered-clean air to attach to his mask at night. 

Maybe being caught by the Queen’s girls fucking his target on it had been a part of why they'd gotten kicked out. 

He sighed, the sound bouncing off cold concrete walls in this dark box. He'd have to feel his way to the toilet and sink. It was terrible, he hated this, and he felt even more closed in than usual. 

Maybe it was an appropriate punishment. He had no idea what time it was, or how long he'd been there, but it hadn't been long, not when he could still taste the last vestiges of pure oxygen on his tongue. 

Well, he would probably be alone until the next day. Might as well...take advantage of the complete and utter solitude. 

Mako was not a young man, was not the sort who could and would get hard at the slightest breeze and never had been. He wasn't usually excitable, didn't tend towards, say, Junkrat’s style of being in a constant state of semi-horny. 

But get a good fight into his head, and he could go for a long time on stamina alone. He undid the bottom half of the stupid boilersuit he'd been required to don again, reaching for his own dick as his tongue slid over a tusk in thought. He'd really liked watching Junkrat murder someone in cold blood, watching the idiot hit the dirt with Junkrat’s fist imprinted in their face. He stroked himself slowly from the base all the way to the head, twisting slightly at the tip before his hand sank back down. 

What he wouldn't give to have Junkrat here now, to reward him properly for impressing Roadhog. It took a lot to impress Roadhog, but that? That fight, that whole riot, the rush of adrenaline, it had made enough of a mark that Roadhog leaned his head back against the wall and let out a soft grunt as he felt himself start to stiffen, the memory of the sheer power he felt when he fought bringing the blood rushing south, and the enjoyment he got when he hit someone so hard they crumpled would have torn a moan from anyone else. From Roadhog, it was just a soft sigh as he slid his thumb over his own tip. Mako was enjoying himself for once since he'd been put in this hellhole. All that was missing was Junkrat’s wild giggles and a warm spindly hand on his dick. 

Another stroke brought a groan to the surface, a whine as he remembered the last time he’d been able to really touch Junkrat. It had been weeks back now-they'd been too busy running again, but he remembered it like was only a day ago. Junkrat was...himself. Eager, quick, wanting, his hand snaking into Roadhog’s pants the second his belt was off, every touch and kiss sharp and burning and bright like everything that Junkrat did, everything that lit up his otherwise empty life like the sun. His hand had been warm and his lips hot, the cool metal of his other hand a pleasant contrast on pierced nipples that Junkrat toyed with and always ended up sliding his tongue over. 

It made him shudder with pleased anticipation as his hand slid over the head again, and then-

He was halfway to an orgasm when the door slammed open, and a voice accented with the almost stereotypical, highbrow dialect of British upperclassmen rang out in the small cell. 

"It seems that even with all my years of extensive training, I cannot control those most basic human urges to fight and fuck," came a drawling, lazy voice that caused Mako to both jerk his hand off his dick and shudder with sudden loathing and revulsion. Squinting at the sudden light, he tried to make sense of the lithe figure in a crisp suit leaning in the doorframe as if he were some sort of lazy teenager.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm the one who determines whether you are ever to see the light of day again or not."

Well, so much for jacking off. He let out a displeased growl and stuffed himself uncomfortably back into the clothing. “You ain't my counselor.” 

“No, but I am your friend Mr. Fawkes’s counselor, and due to the destruction you two have caused, my work is being joined with Annabeth’s at her request, Mr. Rutledge.” The voice, calm and collected as it was, belonged to another young man. Why was everyone here so damn young? 

This man had thick, short black hair, Asian features and a sharp chin, with eyes that seemed to reflect the light a touch. Nothing was machine about this man, everything perfect and crisp and human, from the manicured hands folded over a lithe chest to the flawless eyebrows that quirked up with some private joke, or the insincere smile that lurked on the edges of a narrow mouth. 

Roadhog decided immediately not to trust him, and Mako wholeheartedly agreed. The man’s eyes seemed to say that they would provide no real sympathies, that he saw one Mako Rutledge as barely human. That Roadhog was a monster. 

“My name is Marek Sorren,” he continued, shifting so that Roadhog was aware of the guard just outside the door before he blocked the doorway again. “I will be evaluating the health and safety of you, Mako Rutledge, and your partner in crime, Jamison Fawkes.” 

Roadhog let out a bored grunt as he attempted to adjust his dick. Marek seemed not to care, his cold eyes taking in the rather embarrassing scene with absolutely no feeling at all. 

“If I determine that you will be better suited to stability together than alone, I will confer with my colleague Annabeth and place you two in a joint cell. I'll see if there's anything we can give you in a high enough dosage to permeate that brain of yours, Mr. Rutledge.” 

“Hmph.” Yeah, this asshole had drugged Junkrat all right. 

“I have a few questions that you’ll likely find very intrusive.” 

“Get fucked.” 

“Eloquent. You criminals are all the same under pressure, aren't you?” One of those thin black eyebrows rose in irritation. Roadhog wanted to punch his face in. 

“Like I said, get fucked.” 

“Like you wanted to?” Ouch. 

“Does anyone in this shithole know how to knock?” 

Marek laughed, and an involuntary shudder ran down Roadhog’s spine. It sounded so….malicious. 

"I find your reticence rather boring," that horrible drawl continued. It was aggravating to hear this kid speak so smoothly as if he was Roadhog's superior. "Everything will be oh so much simpler if you talk to me, Mr. Rutledge. We can work out a diagnosis, and a treatment plan, and have you and Mr. Fawkes happily kept out of the public sphere for the rest of your lives, safe and sound. All I want to do is help you.” 

Roadhog's knuckles audibly cracked as he clenched his fist hard, nails biting into his palm as he tried to force bubbling anger below the surface. "Why would you want to help us?" 

"Truthfully, Mr. Rutledge, I want to help the public. Part of that means keeping dangerous criminals away from everyone else, and since the death penalty is long outlawed, the best way is to make this prison your home, somewhere you feel comfortable. If you have everything you need, why leave?" The smile on the pale face of the counselor was so insincere Roadhog felt like he was face to face with the Queen of Junkertown all over again. Nothing but lies, a liar spinning his lies and hoping the flies were too stupid to notice.

“You think I’m fuckin’ stupid, boy?” 

“Yes, yes I do.” 

Roadhog paused. He...hadn't expected an answer like that, and the shock must have been evident enough to make Marek’s fake smile get wider. 

“In fact, I think you're just about as stupid as every other criminal in this prison. Criminals, as a general rule, aren't very intelligent. They tend to get themselves into trouble by virtue of their own idiocy.” 

“Yer full of shit.” 

“You haven't exactly made a case for your intelligence, Mr. Rutledge.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Reluctance to listen to authority,” the young man said softly-at which point Roadhog noticed the hovering recorder drone by Marek’s shoulder. “Hostile behavior. Subject refuses to respond either to kindness or direct antagonism.” 

“The hell?” 

“You knew all counseling sessions would be recorded.” 

“You ain't ethical.” 

“What does a ruthless killer know of ethics? You are hardly the expert on what is and is not ethical, Mr. Rutledge.” 

“An’ a slimy, two-bit shrink in a suit worth less than his degree does?” 

Roadhog felt an instant sensation of satisfaction at the way Marek flinched, frowning. 

“The antagonism really isn't necessary, Mr. Rutledge.” 

“I ain't interested in talking,” he grunted again, turning his head away from the light. 

“You don't have a choice, if you want to see Mr. Fawkes again before you're extradited.” 

His attention was snagged, green eyes going dark with concern. “I'm bein’ extradited?” 

“Well, not yet,” the young man amended. “Your records are being compared with Australian records and New Zealand records before that decision is made. You are still a citizen of New Zealand, are you not? You also applied for-and received-citizenship in Australia.” 

“Applied near thirty years ago, ain't exactly like they cared when they took my land an’ gave it to a bunch a bags of nuts an’ bolts.” 

“Nonetheless, your citizenship has not expired. Whichever country would prefer to put their resources into housing you and keeping you contained, is the one that we will extradite to.” 

“How long will that take, then?” 

“Don't get too comfortable, Mr. Rutledge. It can take anywhere from six to ten months.” 

Okay. All right. Roadhog could handle that. He wouldn't be staying in prison for six months, hell no. “Fuckin’ anything else?” 

“No. This was just our first checkup.” 

“Ya gonna leave now?” 

“Goodnight, Mr. Rutledge.” 

“Fuck you.” 

The door slammed and Roadhog dropped his face into his palms. 

His blood was pounding in his ears from anger now, the idea of being extradited back to Australia or, God forbid, New Zealand, barely matching up to the fury he felt at the sheer arrogance of Marek Sorren. What a tool, what an utter _tool_ , he wanted to hit the man so hard he didn't know which way was up. Not only was he a complete, utter cunt, he'd definitely drugged Junkrat rather than actually do anything about Jamie’s real issues.

That was really part of what was making him so pissed, too, that he knew, he _knew_ that Junkrat had issues. Pyromania was obvious to anyone who had eyes (phyrophilia, if Roadhog was honest with himself), manic episodes, emotional instability. Hell, Roadhog was no psychiatrist but even he knew Junkrat was nuts. He was fucking insane himself-what kind of man both enjoyed murdering others and woke up at night with wordless, faceless, directionless anxiety curling his brain into knots? The other part of it was what if someone DID try to help Rat gain some form of mental stability? 

What would happen to him and Roadhog? 

They had _fun_ , had an outlet, did what they wanted. No one could tell them they were wrong or they were crazy-they liked being the way they were. 

Would Junkrat stay Junkrat if they were stuck here?

The walls seemed so claustrophobic. It was so dark, so small, and Roadhog found himself remembering the inner workings of the omnium, how it squeezed dark and tight around you with the knowledge that radiation soaked your bones. 

He curled into a massive ball on the even shittier cot, put the floppy pillow over his head, and tried not to let the junker-shaped demons that haunted him invade his emotionally fragile mind. 

Roadhog did not sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI-I have gotten a full time job! This is fantastic for me financially but does mean I have less time to write! I will continue to update but it will take a longer amount of time, please be understanding!


	7. Cortisol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solitary doesn't treat men like Mako very well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to sassylassy for editing this chapter for me! Sass writes amazing fic-find her works here! https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyLassy/pseuds/SassyLassy

Solitary confinement was not treating Roadhog well. The cell was small, cramped, dark, stunk of must and of cement (with the slightly unpleasant lingering scent of piss) and he couldn't stand up straight. The prison’s solitary cells were built before men of Roadhog’s size were a thing, or at least as many of them as existed today. 

It was partly because of this that Roadhog was furious. Thanks to the less than subpar environment he retreated into his own head, the same way he had survived the apocalypse. All he could think about was Junkrat alone in the prison without him being there to protect him. Bad things happened when Roadhog wasn't around, he knew it was true because he'd lived it his whole life. He'd left his birthplace, and by the time he'd gone back his mother had died. He’d left to fight the government, and when he came back the Omnium blew.

In the darkness the memories were raw, bleeding wounds that had never really healed. Thinking about it was impossible to avoid, and after a long while it took everything in him to not scream in pain at the weight of the memories of the last time he'd failed to protect those he cared for. He'd let it all out back then, tears streaming down a face that was afire with pain and a heart aching with the knowledge that the home he'd been racing to reach wouldn't be there when he returned; the shell would be standing, but the people that made it his home? His family? 

His baby?

Gone.

It wasn't fair. He couldn't remember a single goddamn detail of his own child's little plump face, but he could remember the way he'd cried when he'd found what remained of her. If only he could forget her entirely, and move on. If he had his way he'd sink into Roadhog entirely, forget Mako, and by extension forget tiny, innocent Pania, the baby he barely remembered. 

He couldn't forget and move on no matter how hard he tried. He liked to pretend that Mako was dead, but his name was still a part of him. And Junkrat could use it and make him smile, without the tugging pain of past mistakes, betrayal, death. 

Without the memory of the Omnium’s explosion.

It was a little strange that every time he thought about that particular date, Jamison inevitably jumped to mind. Where had he been? What had he seen? Did he remember, or had his shoddy sieve of a memory blessed him with forgetting the day the Outback turned red?

Mako hoped, to any and all gods he knew, that Junkrat had forgotten. It wasn't fair to carry the memory around forever, and it was a burden he would rather shoulder a thousand times over than watch Jamie try to bear it. 

He couldn't think of Jamie constantly remembering the things he knew. He’d been there during the war, young, brash and brave, packing up a loaded shotgun and a hook to take on the Omnics. Why a hook? When asked, a young Mako had responded that if Maui could fight the gods with a fish hook, he could fight omnics with one as well. He would not allow the machines to best him. 

Oh, how wrong he had been. 

The darkness wrapped around him, and he was back in the belly of the old opal mines, tunnels used by the ALF to get past omnic or government lines. He'd been discovered, by some of both. He would never forget it. 

He'd been angry, but numb, fresh off the horror of a protest gone wrong. Fleeing to the mines had been his best bet, but Mako had been found. There in the underground, the sting of split skin was nothing to the tang of steel dust in his mouth, the way his fist came down in fury on the husk of a dying omnic a dull pain beside the pain of the human being bleeding on the omnic's chassis. He'd seen the omnic dragged from the darkness on the end of his hook like an island from the ocean, and he'd taken his anger out on it and the human it was with. 

The human had cried out, pleaded, begged for mercy before Mako had taken care of them, his shotgun making the entire tunnel echo and the old gun sending the smell of gunpowder up his nose. The omnic had tried to run. 

He didn't recall what type of unit it was, nor did he care. Up until the omnic turned and ran, his hook had been threatening at best, symbolic at least. The power he'd felt throwing it, chain released behind it and arm filled with strength, had reminded him of childhood tales and playtime under the New Zealand sun. The sickening sound of metal piercing metal and the burn of the chain pulled back with hands half as rough as they were now had brought fear to his heart as the omnic flew back. 

Mako had been afraid. Fear had shown him what to do, how to painfully murder the omnic, plate by plate by cable by rivet. It had human blood on its metallic hands, but if it was his, it’s dead companion’s, or the protestors it had gunned down, he didn't know or care. He knew everything he needed to know about omnics. 

Mako leaned back against the wall of his cell with a heavy sigh and soft thud.

Omnics. They were not man, nor were they machine.

They had always been, and would always be, one thing and one thing only.

_Monsters._

The cell seemed to echo it back to him. Omnics were monsters. Malicious AI. Governments everywhere were complicit. 

Korea still had problems with ‘rogue’ omnics, a massive battle unit constantly a threat in their ocean. Russia, too, had active omnic unrest. 

How was it that Australia had fallen victim to the omnics so much more forcefully? He would never understand why, of all places and people, Australia had been the place to melt down. Well, that wasn't true-he knew exactly why, but refused to dwell on it. 

Had the inhabitants of the Outback not suffered enough before then? 

They just wanted to be left alone, and yet the Omnium was built in the midst of it, and then the place granted to the omnics. 

The cement cell was silent. He remembered being served the notice, remembered the way he’d splintered a fencepost on his own damn farm when he’d read it. 

Evicted from his own damn property for a bunch of monstrous machines. 

It was really no wonder he'd ended up where he was now. He'd never been a complacent man, always taking what he wanted, working for goals-he’d thought the ALF would provide more of the same. 

In the cell, the sound of shifting fabric accompanied Roadhog pillowing his face in huge hands, reaching to run fingers through his own hair. It was down, limp, the tie taken away when he'd been in the infirmary. The silver strands caught on rough fingers, barely visible even right before his own eyes. 

Had it all been a waste? 

Was it all for nothing? All the blood and the sweat and the sharp, acrid tears of anger and grief, pointless? 

What good was he? 

A heavy sigh puffed a paper mask, another noise in oppressive darkness, a near-crawlspace. It could have been the cement of the prison or the metal of the omnium-either way, he was cold. 

He was useless here. He deserved it, maybe, but the thought prevailing past all his memories was the way Junkrat had latched onto him-warm and vital and alive for all his hair tended to fall out and he looked like a walking dead man more often than not. Smiling and laughing all the time, even when things were bad. And they'd had bad times. Hard times. Harder than this, sure, so why was he stressing so bad?

Junkrat had a plan, didn't he? 

How long had he been in this cell? 

Hours? Days? 

Then, panic-just a tinge of it, just enough for him to press his own nose harder into his hand to try and feel anything else. What if Junkrat was hurt, what it he’d been punished? What if that piece of trash that tried to call himself a therapist was keeping Junkrat sedated like a chained beast? He didn't trust Annabeth’s promise to make sure Junkrat wouldn't face retaliation, either, couldn't help but assume the worst. Junkrat was good at fighting and good at living but without Roadhog he was vulnerable and scrawny and back to being that nutcase in a bar with six men bearing down, only ten times worse-here he was unarmed, literally, and even more outnumbered. 

The sooner he was free from the solitary block, the sooner Roadhog could step in and do his job. He was meant to keep Junkrat safe, to be a shield, a wall, a big mean thing in between Junkrat and the rest of the world. 

Because the world deserved to have Junkrat in it.

He was snapped out of his thoughts again by the sound of a slot opening, and then the scrape of a tray on the small shelf inside the slot. 

He recoiled rather violently from the smell of the tray, smacking a hand on the door as his nose wrinkled in disgust. “The fuck is this shit? I don't eat red meat.” 

Not that...whatever that was...could be called meat, exactly. It was brown, when he could see the light of the hall briefly, and in some kind of goop over limp noodles. The guard who’d brought it responded “Meal of the day is beef bourguignon, inmate. If you don't like it there's broccoli on the side.” 

Footsteps receded and he squinted glumly at the vague shape of extremely limp, and sad, broccoli. 

Roadhog ate the broccoli without so much as chewing, just trying to get it down, and then tried to hold his nose to keep the smell of beef from making him sick. Mystery meat, more like. He'd sooner take charred cockatoo on a stick than eat that garbage. 

It stopped smelling quite so badly a few hours later when the sauce cooled and got crusty, sealing the stink of the meat inside a layer of cool liquids. Gross. He was beyond tempted to dump it in his toilet, but it would probably just back the thing up, and he refused to stew in his own shit, literally. 

He slept fitfully for a little while, waking up with a stiff neck and back that both let out horrific cracks as he pushed himself up to sigh. Rotating his shoulders and stretching his legs only got him so far, his spine letting out a few more loud and satisfying cracks before he found himself on the floor trying to stretch out his lower back by leaning forward. It was in this absolutely ridiculous position that he was found in when his door opened. 

“Mr. Rutledge?!” 

Annabeth. He tried to jerk upright and felt his back muscles tense and seize, and simply froze and said “Ow.” 

Annabeth was there seemingly with no regard for her own safety, though there were guards behind her. One held Mako’s abandoned meal with disgust on his face as Annabeth knelt down beside the huge man. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I think I threw out my back trying to stretch,” he answered truthfully. Maybe this would get him out early.

She pursed her lips at him, her eyes shiny and too bright, and his heart sank. “Mako, I can't move you out early.” 

“Don't call me that,” he growled. “And if I gotta be stuck here the least ya could all do is give me food I can eat. Not that.” He tried to force an arm back and felt different muscles release, and though he still couldn't sit straight, he could relax his shoulders even though the muscles were on fire. All the bruises from the rubber bullets reminding him of their existence had Roadhog wincing as he rolled his shoulders in an attempt to loosen his back. “Do you have a reason for comin’ in here?” 

“Counseling session,” she replied as if he ought to know. He sighed because yes, he did know. 

“Do I have to?” 

“Yes, but first I'm going to call one of the nurses to fix your back,” she said. “Can you stand?” 

“Does it look like I can stand?” He raised an irritated eyebrow and gave a half-assed wave at the unpleasantly frozen curve of his back. His belly was sore where his own legs rubbed against himself and the shit fabric of the uniform created unpleasant friction. 

“I'll just...I'll be right back.” She got up and turned tail. Her receding footsteps tapped in time with the pain in his back. 

“Should’ve stayed down under, old man,” one of the guards murmured after her steps faded away. He growled at both of them wordlessly, eyes narrowing. 

“Watch it, inmate,” the same guard said. “You can't do anything to us right now because you're a decrepit old felon with no fuckin’ future.” He was elbowed by his partner-the guard holding the discarded dinner.

“Just because he made our jobs harder doesn't mean ya insult the old man. Ain't that called elder abuse?” 

“I'm not that fuckin’ old, ya cunts,” he snarled. “Shut up.” 

Both guards laughed. The one holding the old food spoke next, grinning down at Roadhog. His teeth were all crooked. “If pretty miss Annabeth wasn't on her way back I’d make sure ya ate yer food jus’ like everyone else. Yer just trash in here, inmate. You're not a big man anymore, even if you're this fat.” 

He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the anger at the guards. It wouldn't serve him well when he was trapped. 

He drifted, the guard’s taunting a distant buzz in the back of a mind that truly wasn't present. Mako was motionless, ignoring pain and people, his vision unfocused as he tried to breathe slow. He didn't know how much time passed before he came to, with a yelp as an omnic pressed freezing metal hands to his back through fabric and sent vibration down his spine, releasing tensed muscles and sore ligaments. He almost swung a fist, but the sight of Annabeth’s piercing eyes stopped him dead, coming back to himself like a snapped rubber band. He stared, she sighed, and he slowly levered himself to the tiny bed and watched warily until the omnic nurse went away, escorted by one of the guards. 

Annabeth was talking. He wasn't really listening-he wanted warm amber eyes and the smell of smoke, didn't want glowing blue eyes and the cleanliness of a damn hospital. 

The counseling session was not much of one-because Mako Rutledge was far away, in a part of his mind where the world was silent. His grunted yes or no replies to Annabeth’s inquiries were automatic, and when she finally left disappointed? 

Well, he lay back down in the uncomfortable little bed and dreamed of Junkrat.


	8. Ketamine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this is 1: late and 2: short as hell. My new job is good but takes up tons of my time, and I’m also working on a Roadhog cosplay (see me at Sac Anime winter 2018!). I felt like I needed to put this out anyway. It was all that would come, but assuming no one minds me jumping around in time a little the next chapter will be what you are all waiting for: Reunion! If Junkrat is ok or not, you won’t know yet. ;) let me know what you all think!

Lasting a full week in this hole was starting to weigh on Roadhog like a ton of bricks on his back. It wasn’t just that he was cramped, or that he missed Junkrat, or that the food was regularly meaty and to him, inedible. It was that _damn_ counselor, Marek. 

One day he did nothing but sit and fix Roadhog with that calculating sort of stare that had Roadhog wanting to rip off his face. The next, he wouldn’t stop asking Roadhog about his medical history-had he taken recreational drugs, what type, when. He’d seemed very surprised at Roadhog’s insistence that he didn’t take, nor had he ever taken, recreational drugs. 

This wasn’t necessarily accurate, of course-as a teen and young adult he’d favored weed brownies. As an adult now, he mixed his own special blend of bronchodilators, omnic life-force (too complex an explanation to bother even thinking about, honestly) and painkillers into hogdrogen-but he would tell Marek about it and how to make it when hell froze over.

As far as Roadhog was concerned, weed brownies and hogdrogen were legitimate medication. Plenty of junkies (and Junkers) didn’t make it past 30, and here he was pushing 50 and going strong. His medication kept him alive. 

That didn’t mean he had to like where this conversation was going. 

“So, you say you’ve never used amphetamines?” Marek looked skeptical, as per usual. 

“Do I look like I did?” 

Marek raised an eyebrow and wrote something down. “Not even one attempt at trying them?” 

“I ain’t stupid.” 

“Mister Rutledge, your known history puts you in reach of plenty of different drugs. What about any abuse of anesthetics? Ketamine, perhaps?” 

“No.” 

“But you did obtain a veterinary license before you became a criminal?” 

Silence. 

“Mister Rutledge, you know cooperation gets you back in Mister Fawkes’s proximity sooner.” 

“....I didn’t waste anesthetic drugs on m’self. D’you know how much ketamine ya need to knock out a sow for surgery?” 

“I’m not a veterinarian, Mister Rutledge, so no. Do you?” 

Roadhog growled a little but answered, feeling rather obligated. He would get closer to Junkrat the more he cooperated-it had been almost five days. “Twenty milligrams a kilo for a survival surgery like an emergency spay. So, if yer sow is three hundred kilos, ya need roughly six thousand milligrams to knock her out. That gets expensive when ya got exactly one supplier who ships to ya and I woulda been a damn fool to waste my anesthesia on myself. Why the fuck do ya keep askin’ me about drugs, huh?” 

“I merely thought perhaps your dissociative coping had to do with a previous drug problem.” 

“Dissociative coping?” He rolled his eyes. “Yer a fuckin’ cunt.” 

“Do you not dissociate on occasion, Mister Rutledge? You’ve been spending much of your time simply staring into space.” 

“Got nothin’ else to do since yer scrawny arse might walk in on me jackin’ it again, an’ I don’t fancy that.” 

“So, do you have any awareness about the source of your dissociation? The trauma of the omnium explosion, certainly, but that all depends on where you were.” 

“None of your business.” 

“How did you get your scars, Mister Rutledge?”

Without even skipping a beat, Roadhog grunted, “Got in a fight with a two-headed dingo.” 

“Hilarious,” the therapist drawled. “Radiation burns?” 

“No shit.” 

“How close were you to the blast?” 

“Close enough.” 

Too close. Outside the zone where people and places vaporized, outside the zone where the heat roasted them alive, outside the zone where people died, but too damn close. Close enough to shelter behind his own bike and a gum tree hoping shrapnel didn’t rip him apart. Close enough to know instinctively that everything he had fought for was gone. 

That everything he had worked so hard for had gone up in flames. 

Ironic that he’d ended up with Junkrat, of all people. Junkrat was a product of his environment, though, and Roadhog was responsible for that environment. 

He’d always thought the world deserved Junkrat. Setting fires, blowing up buildings. Making mayhem. 

If the rest of the world was gonna abandon Oz-

“Mister Rutledge.” 

Fingers, snapping, one-two-three in front of his face, and Roadhog’s eyes refocused as he snorted like a startled pig and set his mouth into a frown. “If ya actually knew shit about ketamine you’d know that in humans it causes a dreamin’ state and actually doesn’t have many ill effects unless ya overdose. Can ya stop with the damn questionin’? Should be obvious by now that I ain’t what I am because of drugs.” 

“And why, pray tell, are you what you are?”

A good question. 

One he thought he’d know the answer to. 

“......”

“Well?” 

_Sanctimonious little-_

“....you’re waitin’ for me to say I’m a criminal because of somethin’ that I wanted and helped make happen, ain’t ya?” 

“I beg your pardon? I would _never_ assume something like that,” Marek said, the sweet honey of sarcasm practically dribbling down his crisp shirt. 

“You want me t’say the omnium goin’ up or the Crisis made me into a criminal, or that it was in my blood. So you can keep us all locked up in here.” Roadhog gestured broadly. “You think bein’ what I am wasn’t somethin’ that coulda been changed. That criminals like me happen because we have bad genes or somethin’.” 

“That’s called eugenics, and it’s barbaric.” 

“Ain’t stoppin’ you. How many people have ya had medically sterilized in prison ‘for their health’, huh? How many more have ya gotten so addicted to drugs or reliant on sedatives that they ain’t capable of seein’ straight? You gonna try an’ get me to admit my problems so you can shoot me up with drugs I’ve never needed?” 

Marek didn’t say anything. His thin mouth pursed into a tight line. “I believe criminals make a choice to be what they are.” 

“You think I chose this life, boy?” 

Silence. Uncertainty, in grey eyes that suddenly seemed less forebodingly cold and more confused by the second. 

“Do you?” He pressed, leaning too far forward for comfort, forcing Marek to lean out of his space. “Ya think I woke up one mornin’ and decided to drop my career an’ my life to become ‘Roadhog’?” A laugh, quick and sarcastic and so sad that it would surely break Junkrat’s heart to hear. 

“Did you?” Marek answered, soft and careful. 

“I chose to make the world pay for hurtin’ me, but I didn’t choose this. Weren’t a single moment where I woke up or sat down and decided to leave everythin’ behind. If you wanna know the real truth, I left the man I used t’be in a shallow grave in th’outback with his baby girl an’ his wife, an’ a different man walked away from it,” he rumbled. “I don’t care what anyone else wants or what they need anymore. I care about makin’ every last one of ya pay for murderin’ Mako Rutledge.” 

“I was not even born,” Marek said carefully. “Do I still deserve to pay?” 

“You?” 

He leaned back with a thud of his shoulders against the wall, folding his arms over his broad chest. “You keep doin’ what everyone else does. Ya make people miserable. Ya invade their lives an’ drug their minds, control ‘em into what you want ‘em to be. Ya ain’t strong enough to pin me down even with omnic help and ya know it, which is why ya ain’t just shot me up with enough tranqs to knock out a cow by now.” 

“And Mr. Fawkes?” Marek’s mouth remained pursed. “Where does he fit in if the entire world is the target for your vengeance?” 

“He’s th’only exception an’ I’d sooner die than let the world consume him.” 

Marek stood then, too quickly. He was uncomfortable, Roadhog could practically taste the undercurrent of terror. “....Annabeth will be in to talk to you shortly before you can no longer be held in solitary. Good evening.” 

He swept out before Roadhog could snarl another insult, plunging the man into blackness once again as the cell door and hall door slammed and the lights went dark.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm happy to begin publishing this fic! My first in god knows how long. I've posted the first two chapters out of sheer excitement. I'd like to try and manage weekly updating at least, but that may not always happen! Please be understanding with me~!


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